I used to think that if you worked hard enough, the idea of “enough” would eventually stop feeling uncertain.
Enough food. Enough warmth. Enough stability to open the fridge without silently calculating what was left.
But in our home, “enough” was never guaranteed it was something I had to negotiate every single day. With grocery lists, with overdue bills, with quiet sacrifices no one ever said out loud.
Tuesday dinners followed a routine. Rice, chicken thighs, carrots, and half an onion just enough to cover the night and maybe stretch into the next day. As I cooked, I was already doing the mental math: who could take less, what could be saved, which bill could wait a little longer.
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