Growing up, our kitchen was a battlefield. The signal to batten down the hatches? Dad’s lunch pail, landing with the force of righteous thunder on the chipped counter. That clanging thermos had more authority than the President. “This is my house,” he’d declare, chest out, sweat still fresh on his brow. “I pay the bills. I’m the boss.�

There is a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from labor. It comes from vigilance — a state of constant readiness, like a soldier in the trenches long after the guns have quieted. You’re not waiting for peace. You’re waiting for the next shot, the next accusation, the next forced explanation for simply existing.They’ve built the world t