By thirty, Graham had learned that exhaustion came in layers. There was the kind sleep could fix, and then there was the kind that settled into your bones when three children depended on you for everything and there was no one left to split the fear with.
He lived in a small rental house that always seemed one repair away from disaster. The floors creaked, the back door stuck in humid weather, and the kitchen light flickered whenever the microwave and toaster ran at the same time.
Still, it was home. It was the place where Nora did spelling homework at the table, where Hazel lined up her stuffed animals along the couch cushions, and where Milo fell asleep clutching toy cars in both fists as if even dreams required preparation.
Graham told himself that was enough. Most days, he even believed it.
Then the washing machine died.
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