Most mornings, I’m standing behind the loading dock of our little Main Street grocery store before the sun even decides to show up. I breathe in the cold air, watch the sky lighten, and remind myself that sometimes just showing up is enough — even when life feels like it’s spinning faster than I can run.
My job isn’t glamorous. It isn’t a dream anyone scribbles in a yearbook. But at this point in my life, I’ve fallen in love with one word more than any other:
Stable.
Stable means the fridge is full.
Stable means the lights stay on.
Stable means my daughter has a real shot at her future.
I used to want more — big ambitions, big plans. Now I just want enough. Enough warmth. Enough time. Enough peace.
My husband, Dan, works maintenance at the community center. Pipes, lights, doors, toilets — if it breaks, he fixes it. He comes home tired, sleeves stained, shoulders aching, but he never complains. Not once. We’ve both lived through the kind of instability you never forget, and we’re determined to keep our family on solid ground.
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