CHAPTER 1
Maya
I was sotired I couldn’t remember when exhaustion stopped being temporary.
Four hours of sleep, two cups of coffee, and the same quiet weight I’d carried for thirteen years—the fear that today might be the day everyone turns out to be right.
The alarm screamed at 5:30. I silenced it before the second beep and lay there in the dark, cataloging what hurt. My eyes were gritty and swollen. The tension headache had taken up permanent residence at the base of my skull. My hands, trembling since somewhere around essay forty-seven last night, like they’d forgotten how to be still.
Twenty-six fourth-graders. Twenty-six personal narratives about "A Time I Was Brave." I'd made it through most of them before my vision blurred too badly to continue.
I pushed myself upright, swung my legs over the edge of the bed, and waited for the dizziness to pass.
This was fine. This was just Tuesday.
The apartment was cold. I kept the thermostat low to save money, and I pulled my robe tighter as I shuffled to the kitchen. The coffee maker was already prepped from the night beforebecause past-Maya knew present-Maya wouldn't be functional enough to measure grounds. Small mercies. I hit the button and leaned against the counter while it gurgled to life.
My reflection caught in the window above the sink. Dark circles that no amount of concealer could hide. Skin that looked gray in this light. Thirty years old and feeling fifty.
You're always tired,David’s voice slipped in, uninvited.You're never present.
I poured my coffee black and tried to silence the voice in my head. I took a sip that burned my tongue and checked the clock.
5:47. Thirteen minutes before I had to wake Zoe.
Getting Zoe up for school used to be the best part of my morning.
When she was small, I'd sit on the edge of her bed and rub her back, singing made-up songs until she giggled awake. She'd wrap her arms around my neck and let me carry her to the kitchen, still half-asleep, her head heavy on my shoulder.
Now she was thirteen, and I knocked three times before pushing open her door.
"Zo. Time to get up."
A shape shifted under the comforter. Earbuds trailed across the pillow. She'd fallen asleep listening to something again.
"Zoe. Come on."
"I'm up."
She wasn't up. I could see that her eyes were still closed.
I crossed to the window and pulled the blinds. Weak September light filtered in, doing nothing to warm the room. "I'm making eggs. You need to be in the kitchen in ten minutes."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat."
"I'll grab something at school."
We both knew she wouldn't. But I didn’t have the energy for this fight. Not this morning.
"Ten minutes," I repeated, and closed the door behind me.
In the kitchen, I cracked eggs into a pan and tried not to think about how different things used to be. How Zoe used to tell me everything. Her friends, her teachers, the boy in her class who'd said something mean, the book she was reading that she justhadto describe chapter by chapter.
Now I got one-word answers, shrugs, and eye rolls that felt like slaps.
She's thirteen, I reminded myself. This is normal.
