She wasn’t wrong.
For two years I’d worked nonstop.
Twelve-hour days.
Weekend shifts.
Holiday projects.
No vacations.
No relationships.
No social life.
Work.
Sleep.
Repeat.
I thought I was surviving.
Maybe I was just hiding.
“You were carrying everyone,” she continued.
“That’s what adults do.”
“No,” she said gently. “That’s what exhausted people do.”
I stared at the floor.
She squeezed my hand.
“Every month you brought me a check.”
“I wanted to help.”
“I know.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Your father would have been so proud.”
I felt my
