Mother
I wake up already exhausted.
Not from sleep—sleep doesn't count anymore—but from carrying yesterday into today. I listen for their breathing before I let myself breathe. As long as they're still asleep, I have a moment to gather myself, to decide what kind of mother I'm going to be today.
I choose good.
Breakfast is quick. I move on muscle memory. Cereal, cups, small hands reaching up. I remind myself that I showed up. That matters.
I tell myself I am present.
Child
Mom is quiet this morning.
Quiet can be good or bad. I don't know which yet, so I don't talk. I sit at the table and watch her hands instead. They move fast, like she's in a hurry to be somewhere else.
I eat what she gives me even though it's not my favorite.
She doesn't notice.
Mother
They talk while I pack bags and check the time. I answer them automatically, hoping the right words land where they're supposed to. I tell myself that multitasking is survival, not neglect.
I kiss their forehead before we leave.
I don't miss that.
Child
I tell Mom about a dream I had.
She says "mm-hmm" and keeps looking at her phone. I stop talking before the good part. When she kisses my head, it's quick—but I count it anyway.
It still means something.
Mother
The day stretches too long. My body hums with tension, with need. I bargain with myself—just get through the afternoon. Just get through pickup. Just get through dinner.
I am still managing.
That counts.
Child
I watch the clock at school.
When Mom is late, my stomach feels tight. When she's on time, I feel proud—like I helped somehow. Today she's almost late.
Almost is okay.
Mother
By evening, my patience is gone. I snap over spilled juice, over noise, over nothing. I see their face fall and immediately hate myself.
I apologize. I pull them close. I promise tomorrow will be better.
I mean it.
Child
When Mom yells, I freeze.
When she says sorry, I melt.
I don't need tomorrow to be better. I just need her to hold me right now. When she does, I breathe again.
Mother
After bedtime, I sit alone in the quiet. The guilt creeps in, heavy and familiar. I remind myself they're fed, clean, safe.
That has to be enough.
Child
After bedtime, I hear Mom moving around.
I pretend I'm asleep so she won't feel bad. I hug my pillow and think about the kiss from this morning. I decide that means today was a good day.
Both
We fall asleep believing the same lie.
That tomorrow will fix everything.