The week before my sister's wedding, I took my mother's casserole dish down to the public pool. I was supposed to return it, but the pool was open and the dish could wait.
The shallow end is where I always go. The water's only four feet deep there, and I can stand with my chin above the surface.
I'm a welder. My hands are steady on a torch, but they shake when I hold a phone. People think I'm tough, but I'm just good at standing still.
My five siblings are all in town for the wedding. They're at the lake house planning centerpieces, and I'm here, twenty minutes away, in the shallow end.
The casserole dish belongs to my older sister. She lent it to me for a work potluck three years ago. I never had the right moment to give it back.
At the shallow end, the bottom is solid concrete. I can press my feet into it and know I'm not going anywhere. That's what I need right now.
No one sees me here. That's the point. I'm fighting the quiet battle of being the middle child who never says no, just disappears for an hour in four feet of water.