It’s Saturday night and I feel hollowed out, I’m heavy and numb and sore.
This week has taken everything I had and still wanted more.
I’ve had Tilly all week because her dad’s away—again.
Another break for him.
Another storm for me.
I’ve bent myself in every direction to make it work—changed my hours, done every drop-off and pick-up, run myself ragged until there was nothing left for me.
Not one pause.
Not one breath.
And she’s been good. So good.
But even good kids have lightning storms, and hers still roll in without warning.
When they do, I take the hit. Every time.
Because I’m the constant.
The one who absorbs it all while holding the walls up around us.
I love her with everything in me.
But God, I’m running on fumes.
And under all that love, resentment coils quietly—resentment for her dad’s freedom, for another holiday, another escape, while I keep burning myself to keep everyone else warm.
Resentment for money that feels tight, for a house that feels heavy, for work that doesn’t stop.
For never having a moment where I’m just me, not a mother, not a provider, not a caretaker.
Just me.
By Friday night, I broke.
Completely broke.
Drove to Mum’s and crumbled the moment I walked in.
The exhaustion, the rage, the grief—all of it spilled.
I felt like I was clinging to a cliff edge with bloodied fingers,
slipping into a silence I couldn’t come back from.
Joel came.
The three of us went for a swim.
I didn’t want to. God, I didn’t.
But I needed it—the shock of cold water, the weight sliding off me for just a little while.
We ate Chinese at Mum’s after, then Joel and I came home,
shared a drink, watched a horror film, and talked like we always do.
He’s exhausted too—stretched thin by his new job and carrying stress he won’t admit out loud.
And me? I was sharp. Mean. Lashing out because I didn’t know where else to put all the mess inside me.
But that night helped.
It saved me, a little.
Saturday started slower.
I dropped Joel at work and tried to swallow the guilt of spending money and time on myself when I went to get my eyebrows done.
It’s ridiculous, that shame—like caring for myself is some kind of sin.
Later, Tilly and I rode bikes. Just us, just moving, and for a while, the heaviness eased.
Joel came back after work and helped me with DIY because he knows me.
Knows that when I’m drowning, I clean.
When I’m falling apart, I rip through clutter like it might stop the chaos in my head.
And he lets me.
He doesn’t fight it—he joins me.
Because that’s who he is.
Because he loves me even when I’m a hurricane tearing through the house.
We talked about forever—our blended family, our dream house,
the day we make a home that feels like peace.
I want that so much it aches.
Him. Us. A life that doesn’t feel like constant survival.
Then he left to collect Luca and I kept cleaning until my hands hurt.
Purged the kitchen like it had sinned.
Scrubbed through the noise in my head.
Tilly’s storms rolled through again,
and I cleaned harder, like if I worked fast enough,
loud enough,
I could drown out the screaming inside me.
Finally, I dragged myself into the shower at 9:30.
It felt like crawling back from war.
And now I’m in bed, empty but breathing.
It wasn’t pretty.
It wasn’t easy.
But I’m still here.
Holding on—even if my fingers are bleeding.