It's 3:07 a.m. and I am sitting in the drive-through line at a 24-hour pharmacy with my four-year-old asleep in the back and my jaw locked from three days of grinding my teeth and a phone in my hand that I keep unlocking to search for a book that sounds like a real solo mom telling me the truth.
I was 34 and five months pregnant when my husband moved out. My son was four. My family lives eighteen hundred miles away. I had a job doing medical billing, a commute that ate ninety minutes a day, and the specific kind of broke where you're technically employed and still on assistance.
The contrast I kept rehearsing in the dark was humiliating in how small it was. On one side: some version of me in a lit kitchen at a reasonable hour, making one dinner, handing a kid to a second adult for twenty minutes. On the other side: me, now. Eating a protein bar over the sink. Crying in the car before work. Going almost catatonic twice.
I felt my brain power down like it was full and someone had flipped the breaker.