The night before, he said, “Enjoy the weekend.”
It was meant with care—
a sentence wrapped in hope,
spoken by my father in the sterile quiet of a hospital room,
family standing around him.
It lingered.
Later that night, at home,
we had Gin and Tonic.
Just me and my husband.
It should have been soft.
But something cracked.
Words turned sharp.
We argued—again.
I went to bed with that bitter sting,
the aftertaste of both alcohol and distance.
So when Saturday came,
the pressure to feel “better” weighed on me like wet clothes.
No bright beginning.
Just grey.
But I got up.
Coffee.
Cinnamon rolls for breakfast.
Big, sweet, sticky.
The kind you eat slowly,
as if the warmth could settle something unsettled inside.
Laptop.
Focus.
I slipped into my quiet kind of discipline:
more work on the academic applications.
Adjustments, details, clean LaTeX layout.
Precision as refuge.
And then—sugar.
Not metaphorical.
Real.
As a break, I followed to the playground.
A short stretch.
Children laughing.
Puddles blooming.
Even more coffee (yes, with more sugar!)
No deep insights—just a reminder: life moves on, whether you’re ready or not.
More applications.
Starting to feel a bit proud...
A short visit from mom, sis and niece.
On their way back from visiting my dad in hospital.
Later, a caramel macchiato.
In between rain, hindering us from doing the garden.
More sugar.
More softness.
More holding it together.
It was one of those days that doesn't scream its meaning.
It just exists.
In the in-between.
In the soft edges of ordinary things.
I didn’t write anything profound.
Didn’t solve anything.
But I stayed.
I worked.
I walked.
I listened—to the weight of my own silence.
To the echo of words that still hadn’t found closure.
Not every Saturday is made for pure joy.
Some are just made for surviving sweetness.