But she wasn’t figuring anything out.
She slept until noon most days. I’d leave for work in the morning and she’d be in bed. I’d come home and she’d be in the same place on the sofa, hair in a messy bun now, wearing my robe like it belonged to her. She would watch TV, scroll her phone, laugh into it, text friends.
Sometimes she went out at night, dressed like she had somewhere important to be, leaving behind the heat cranked up and the lights blazing.
When I asked about job applications, she waved me off with vague language.
“I’m exploring my options,” she said, like she was a consultant deciding between offers, not an unemployed person who’d been evicted.
Meanwhile, my routines eroded. My office was no longer mine, so I tried to squeeze work into my bedroom. I balanced my laptop on my knees, took calls with my back against the headboard, hoping my voice sounded professional while my sister’s laughter floated through the walls. I tried working at the kitchen table, but the kitchen was often dirty, cluttered, loud.
