January 9, 2026 began the way most of my days do lately—getting the kids to school, then picking them up again in the afternoon. In between, I spent a good portion of the day cleaning. Not casually, but intentionally. This was a planned sleepover night, so I wanted the house to feel ready—orderly, welcoming, calm... or at least as close to calm as it ever gets.
Cleaning has become my way of preparing space, not just physically, but emotionally too.
Errands and Thoughtful Stops
Around 3:30pm, I left to pick up Eve and the girls. Before heading back home, I made a stop at Target to look for a specific coffee her mom likes. While I was there, something else caught my eye—a book for The Sister titled 3000 Questions About Me.
It felt like the kind of gift that wasn't about me at all. More like an invitation for her to reflect, to open up to herself, maybe even to parts of herself she hasn't explored yet. When I gave it to her, she seemed genuinely interested—and genuinely happy.
That mattered more than I expected.
Dinner and a Movie That Didn't Land
Afterward, I picked up Kayla, and we all headed home. Dinner was simple—fried kielbasa and fried potatoes. Filling, familiar, easy enough for everyone.
We tried watching Chicago with the kids. It was... not the right choice. A strange pick for a group of restless kids, and it didn't hold their attention at all. Eventually, we abandoned the idea and focused on getting everyone settled for bed.
That took time—but eventually, the house quieted.
Stepping Out for the Night
Once the girls were asleep, Eve and I decided to step out for a bit and visit a neighbor for some low-key "garage karaoke." Nothing fancy—just music, laughter, and a chance to be adults for a little while.
It felt good to laugh. To sing. To not be "on" for anyone else.
But as the night went on, something shifted.
When Affection Gets Complicated
At one point, Eve asked something of me that landed wrong. It wasn't just the request—it was the way it felt tied to affection. Like closeness came with conditions.
That bothered me more than I wanted to admit.
Not because I don't enjoy affection—I do. But because I don't want care, intimacy, or connection to feel transactional. I want it to be freely given, not negotiated.
Underneath that moment was something heavier I didn't say out loud. A quiet fear. A concern I've been carrying for a while now, about her well-being, about her pace, about whether I'm watching someone I care deeply about move faster than is safe.
I try to slow things down.
I try to choose my words carefully.
And sometimes... I don't know how to say no without feeling like I'm risking closeness.
So I stayed quiet.
Ending the Night
Eventually, we found our way back to each other. We shared affection, closeness, warmth. And later—well after midnight—we finally went to bed, sometime after 2:00am.
I didn't fall asleep easily.
Not because of the late hour, but because my mind kept circling the same questions—about boundaries, about love, about how much compromise is too much.
I care deeply.
I'm afraid quietly.
And I'm still here.
January 9 wasn't loud or dramatic. It was gentle on the surface, heavy underneath.
One of those days tht looks fine from the outside—but lingers long after the lights go out.