“My sister preps a huge bowl of tuna salad and keeps it for a week. I won’t touch it after day three. How long is tuna salad safe in the fridge?” That simple text to my sister, Peregrine, started everything. She was always the organized one; I was the opposite. After losing my job, I’d been living with her for months, pretending I was fine while quietly spiraling. She never pushed—just cleaned up my messes and waited.
She replied, “Technically 3–5 days, but if it smells off, toss it.” Then added, “Are you okay?” I almost told her the truth. Instead, I sent a thumbs-up. That night, I stood in the kitchen, poking at the tuna salad, knowing it was past day three. I felt spoiled too. Peregrine came home early, caught me sniffing it, and gently said, “You don’t have to punish yourself with bad tuna.”
She dumped it out and finally said what we’d both avoided: she knew I was struggling. Later that night, I admitted I didn’t know how to start again. She smiled and said, “Let’s start small.” The next morning, we made a list—update my resume, apply to a few jobs daily, take care of myself. Slowly, things moved forward. I landed an interview, then a job. We celebrated with takeout and laughter.