At 54, my back ached before my feet even hit the floor each morning. Thirty years of warehouse pallets and construction sites had carved themselves into my shoulders, and the calendar pinned to my kitchen wall was a quiet map of unpaid bills.
My apartment was small, tidy, and tired, just like me.
Emily called every Sunday without fail.
“Dad, you sound exhausted again,” she said.
“I’m fine, sweetheart. Just a long week,” I told her.
“You always say that.”
“And I’m always fine.”