By Thursday, the weight of the routine felt physical. The breakfast rush, the lunch prep, the school runs—it was a machine, and I was the only part that needed oiling.
“Maya, your lunch!” I called out as she hurried to the car.
I moved through the day like clockwork, but the gears were grinding. Beneath the surface, the monotony was teetering on a jagged edge. Marcus and Sarah were still living in the illusion that this would last forever.
I looked at the house—the clean floors, the folded laundry, the stocked pantry—and I smiled. It was the last time it would look like this. The storm wasn’t coming anymore; it was already here.
