I turn the door lock, two deadbolts, and slide the chain across before adding a doorstop under the handle for good measure. It would take me three minutes to break into my own apartment, but the doorstop would slow even firefighters.
Relieved to be home safe, I allow myself a moment to gather myself at the door before I lurch back into motion.
In the entryway, I step out of my shoes so I don’t wake up Lena. My jacket hangs on the hook farthest from the door, never the first, which belongs to Lena.
Keys land in the ceramic dish on the narrow entryway table, a cheap piece I reinforced with metal brackets after the leg cracked six months ago. The repair job isn’t pretty, but it works, which is the only metric that matters in our household.
The tidy living room sits in quiet, illuminated by the dull glow of streetlights filtering through blinds I keep tilted far enough to allow light in, but not enough for anyone to see inside. Two mismatched chairs face a small TV we rarely turnon. Between them sits a coffee table I found on the curb.
The walls remain bare except for a calendar tracking Lena’s school events and a single framed photo of her from last year’s academic awards ceremony.
This apartment cost me four months of double shifts, skipped lunches, and a security deposit that emptied my emergency fund. The landlord almost didn’t rent to us. A single Omega guardian with a teenage sister raised too many questions.
I had to bring pay stubs from all my different part-time jobs and references from two previous landlords before he relented.
Every sacrifice was worth it for a sturdy door, reliable heat, and the fact that nobody has tried to break in since we moved here eighteen months ago.
Sunday night settles into my bones, with Monday right around the corner. My mind calculates the hours until the first alarm to wake Lena, the second to get her on the bus, and the third to mark the start of my day.
Fatigue sinks deeper with each passing minute, but I force myself to complete my routine before sleep can claim me.
On silent feet, I cross to the kitchen, the soundabsorbed by thin carpet worn in pathways mapping our daily movements. The linoleum floor of the kitchen sticks slightly to my socks, clean but discolored from years of use before we moved in.
I pull the wrapped to-go box from my backpack, yet another meal of chicken breast and vegetables for the morning. I set it on the middle shelf of the refrigerator, ready for Lena to eat before school, and check the rice cooker to confirm she prepped it before bed.
The clock on the microwave reads after midnight. Sixty-five hours and eleven minutes since I last saw my sister, when she left for school Friday morning, and I crashed out from exhaustion.
The number registers in my mind, triggering a familiar calculation of acceptable absence. Two and a half days. Two full nights. No more than that. The arrangement works because it must, not because either of us chose it.
Friday morning to Sunday afternoon belong to sleep and recovery. To store up enough energy to function through another five days of constant movement between jobs. Without these forty-eight hours of unconsciousness, broken only by bathroom visits and minimal meals, the entire delicate structure of our lives would collapse beneath my exhaustion.
I tell myself this arrangement serves her, too. At sixteen, Lena needs space to breathe without her overprotective brother hovering nearby, tracking her movements, checking her homework, and counting calories to ensure she eats enough. She gets two days of normal teenage existence, and I get enough rest to keep our life running for another week.
The kitchen counter gleams under the fluorescent light, scrubbed clean but stained in places from previous tenants. Four matching plates are stacked in the cabinet beside two mismatched bowls, which is all we need for the two of us. The refrigerator hums with a slight rattle from working hard past its intended lifespan, but I’ve learned to tune it out.
It will limp along until it dies, and then I’ll call the landlord to repair it.
I fill a glass with water from the tap, drinking half in slow, measured sips. Cold liquid trails down my throat, washing away the lingering diner grease and city bus exhaust.
Out of habit, I check the stove knobs, wipe the already clean counter, and straighten the dish towel on the oven door.
In the morning, I’ll wake at five thirty. Lena will emerge from her room at six fifteen. We’ll share twenty minutes at the kitchen table before I walk herto the bus, then head out to my first job. The lock company needs me at nine o’clock. The diner expects me by four in the evening. Home before eleven thirty if the buses run on time.
Repeat four more times with variations depending on which job needs more hours.
I drain the rest of my water and place the glass upside down in the dish drainer. A yawn stretches my jaw until it cracks as my body reminds me that precious hours of rest are ticking away while I dawdle.
The exhaustion hits in earnest now, the wave of bone-deep weariness threatening to drop me where I stand. I brace one hand on the counter until it passes, then push myself toward the next task.
Lena’s backpack waits on the kitchen table, the purple fabric faded to a dusty lavender from years of use. I still need to review her homework before morning.
The system works because I make it work, because failure isn’t an option when someone else’s future hangs in the balance. My rest and comfort remain secondary to that single, non-negotiable.
Turning on the single light over the dining table, I settle into a chair and rub my temples.
Every Sunday, without fail, I check her work, not because I don’t trust her to complete it, but becauseone missed assignment could spiral into concerned teacher calls, meetings I can’t attend without missing work, and questions about our home life I can’t afford to answer.
I unzip the backpack with care, conscious of the zipper’s tendency to catch on the worn fabric. The contents spill out in a controlled avalanche of textbooks, a graphing calculator I paid for in installments, a binder bulging with papers, and a planner I insist she maintain.
