Wednesday morning started with the usual assembly line of sandwiches and juice boxes. I tucked the notes into their lunches as always, but my handwriting felt different—sharper, more intentional.
As the mid-morning sun warmed the kitchen table, I did something I hadn’t done in years: I opened a notebook and wrote down a schedule for myself.
I penciled in “Coffee at the park,” “Visit the library,” and “Afternoon nap.” I wasn’t just listing errands anymore; I was reclaiming my time. Every stroke of the pen felt like a small spark of mutiny.
