Sunday mornings were supposed to be about pancakes and peace. Sunshine streaming in, birds chirping, maybe some soft jazz if you're into that sort of thing.
Not for me.
The morning came like a wrecking ball straight to my nervous system.
I stood in front of my closet, hands on my hips, glaring at my own clothes like they were the real enemy.
Because honestly? They kind of were. What was I even supposed to wear to a Sunday brunch with family after I'd already announced the small, insignificant detail that...oh hey, I am getting divorced.
A sundress felt too cheerful. A blazer screamed look at me, pretending I have my life together. Jeans and a T-shirt? Might as well come with a neon sign saying "yes, I'm spiraling, thanks for asking."
By the time I yanked out a pale blue dress, my stomach was already tying itself into origami cranes. My brain, of course, chose this exact moment to replay every comment made by my mother when I told her about my decision.
