I always believed that with enough work and careful management, we’d eventually find what we needed.
Enough to eat. Enough warmth. More than enough love, even when everything else was difficult.
What I hadn’t truly understood—until that Tuesday evening in late spring—was that this “enough” was a concept I had to contend with every week. I argued with the supermarket about what we could afford. I argued with the bills about which ones could wait another week. I argued with myself about whether the numbers would add up and what I would do if they didn’t.
