The house felt like it was falling apart today. The baby screaming, the toddler throwing things, the sink overflowing with dishes. I lost my patience. I snapped.

The house felt like it was falling apart today. The baby screaming, the toddler throwing things, the sink overflowing with dishes. I lost my patience. I snapped. I told myself she wasn’t handling it either.

But when I finally stopped and looked, I saw it — she’d been holding everything together all day. She kept the kids fed, even when they refused to eat. She picked up the toys again and again, just so no one would trip. She held the baby until her arms went numb, so I could finish my work call. And I almost let it vanish into the noise, like it was nothing. That’s the version of me that keeps telling myself we’re drowning, when she’s the one bailing water out of the boat. But tonight I caught it. The kids finally asleep. The sink cleared. Her hair a mess, her shirt stained, her body slumped on the couch — but she never stopped moving until everyone else was okay. My chest tightened and I finally said, ‘Hey… thank you for everything you carried today. For holding it together when I didn’t. I see it.’ She didn’t say much — just closed her eyes and leaned back, but I could see the way her breathing changed. I use an app called ‘quiet effort.’ It keeps me from missing the love that shows up in the hardest days