I didn’t understand, at first, that the tuna was just a mirror. I’d been sitting in my sister’s house the same way that bowl sat in the fridge: quiet, shrinking, pretending not to take up room while slowly breaking down. Losing my job hadn’t only emptied my bank account; it had hollowed out the part of me that believed I was allowed to be cared for. Her “You don’t have to punish yourself” landed harder than any lecture could.

Her small assignments—fix your resume, send two applications, take a shower—felt almost insulting until I realized they were acts of refusal: refusal to let me rot in place. Each tiny task pulled me a little further from the edge. When work finally came, it felt like a continuation, not a rescue. Months later, when she was the one unraveling, I recognized the look. I sat beside her, made the list, stayed while she doubted. That’s what we do now: open the fridge, open the conversation, and trust that noticing the smell is the first brave step toward starting over.