Field Note No. 16

Tax Day Casualty

Day ???

The days are blending together. I no longer trust the sun.

I am hanging on by a thread.

Correction: I was hanging on by a thread. The thread is gone. I watched it leave. I did nothing to stop it.

Today is what I believe the mainland calls “tax day,” which feels inappropriate given my current circumstances, which include but are not limited to: mental collapse, operational failure, and a complete breakdown in grilled cheese production.

I waited until the last possible second to address the taxes, which suggests a level of confidence in myself that is, in hindsight, deeply misplaced.

Work communications arrived in rapid succession. Urgent requests. Follow-ups. Clarifications. I responded to some. I reread others six times and understood them less with each pass. At one point I believe I blacked out briefly while moving my cursor in slow, deliberate circles, as if mimicking productivity might summon it.

It did not.

Inventory check: catastrophic.

I have once again failed to secure groceries. This is no longer an oversight. This is a character trait. The children require food daily, which feels excessive and frankly unsustainable given my current performance levels.

Despite these conditions, I attempted dinner.

Grilled cheese.

Simple. Reliable. Forgiving.

I burned it.

Not slightly. Not recoverable. A complete and total loss. The kind of failure that makes you pause and wonder if someone else should be in charge here. Someone more qualified. Someone who remembers to buy bread.

But there were two slices left.

Two.

I steadied myself. This was my moment. A chance to restore order. To prove to myself, to the small dependent human, to whatever higher power is monitoring this island, that I am still capable.

The second grilled cheese was successful.

I handed it over with quiet pride. This was redemption. This was resilience. This was motherhood.

She inhaled the grilled delicacy. Looked me dead in the eyes. And said:

“Is there another one? I’m still hungry.”

No, babe.

No, there is not another one.

Because I used the last of the bread.

Because I forgot to go to the store.

Because I am, apparently, unable to maintain the basic supply chain required to keep this operation running.

The guilt set in quickly. Heavy. Immediate. A full-body experience.

Because she is just a child who is still hungry, and I am the adult who was supposed to have more bread.

And then, as if summoned by my own unraveling, her sweet voice from down the hall:

“Mommy, the dog threw up on my bed.”

Of course she did.

Of course.

At this point I am moving through the house like a ghost. Cleaning. Nodding. Responding. No longer fully present in my own body. Just a shell of a woman holding a spatula and a vague sense of responsibility.

The taxes remain unfinished.

The child is still probably hungry.

The dog cannot be trusted.

And I am no longer convinced I am qualified for this position.

If this journal is recovered, please note:

I am trying.

I am failing.

And I will be buying groceries tomorrow.

Assuming I survive the night.