It started with a simple question: “How long is tuna salad good in the fridge?” I texted my sister, Peregrine. Her reply: “Technically 3–5 days, but trust your nose.” Then she asked, “Are you okay?” I wasn’t. I’d lost my job six months ago and had been living with her since. She never pushed, never judged, even as I drifted through each day, unsure how to begin again. That night, I poked at the tuna salad—day four. It felt familiar: a little spoiled, still hanging on. Peregrine walked in, took one look, and gently dumped it.
“You don’t have to punish yourself with expired tuna,” she said. At 3 a.m., I admitted, “I don’t know how to get started again.” She took my hand. “Then we start small.” We made a list: Shower. Apply for jobs. Eat fresh food. Breathe.
