But something in me felt off.
I was tired in a way that went deeper than sleep. Not the kind you fix with rest, but the kind that comes from holding everything together for too long without ever stopping to breathe. The kind that settles quietly into your bones.
Beside me stood my husband, Quasi, as composed as ever. His tailored gray suit sat perfectly on him, his shoes gleaming, his briefcase resting easily in his hand. He carried himself with effortless confidence. The cologne I’d given him for his birthday still lingered faintly around him.
From the outside, we looked like we had it all together. A successful family. A rising executive, his supportive wife, and their well-dressed child seeing him off.
Our son, Kenzo, stood close to me.
He was only six, his small hand wrapped tightly in mine, slightly damp. He wore his favorite hoodie and sneakers that lit up every time he shifted. His dinosaur backpack hung unevenly from one shoulder, filled with little things he refused to leave behind.
