The Day I Hid in the Bathroom

I hid in the bathroom today.

Not to cry—

though that came later.

Just to breathe

in a room

where no one was saying my name

on repeat

like it was a lifeline and a weapon.

I sat on the edge of the tub,

cold porcelain against tired thighs,

and counted the seconds

before a knock

or a whimper

or tiny fingers under the door.

I wasn’t escaping.

I was remembering—

who I am

beneath the oatmeal stains,

beneath the “just one more story,”

beneath the endless pieces of myself

scattered across their needs.

I love them.

Of course I do.

I love them so much it aches in places

I didn’t know had bones.

But love doesn’t cancel out depletion.

It doesn’t refill your cup

when everyone’s drinking from it

with both hands.

So I sat.

Alone.

With guilt coiled around my ankles

and gratitude in my lungs,

twisting together

in that impossible tangle

that only parents know.

And then—

a knock.

a whisper.

“Mommy?”

I opened the door

not because I was ready,

but because love

sometimes walks back into the fire

before the flame dies down.