Melissa.
By the time dinner was ready, my arm felt numb.
Not because the pain had faded.
But because I had grown used to it.
The burn from the oil hadn’t disappeared; it had simply settled into something constant, a dull, persistent sting that no longer startled me but refused to be ignored. It throbbed beneath my skin, a quiet reminder with every movement that it was still there. Every time I stirred the pot, every time I lifted a tray or adjusted a plate, the fabric of my sleeve brushed against the tender skin and sent a subtle flare of heat up my arm.
It didn’t make me flinch anymore.
It just lingered.
A steady ache woven into the rhythm of my work.
But I finished.
Of course I did.
Stopping had never truly been an option. Not when expectations hovered as heavily as they did in
