I picked up my new glasses from the optometrist's on the strip mall by the closed boardwalk. Off-season in a beach town means everything runs slow. I don't mind it.
Walking back to my car, I looked up at the sycamore along the curb. For the first time, I saw individual leaves. Each one separate. Each one moving on its own stem.
I stood there until my cousin called from the car door. 'You okay? You see the leaves now?' She's eleven, and she asks questions like she's collecting answers.
Later that night, I found a grocery receipt from two weeks ago tucked in my tax manual. Still there, marking a page. I'd bought milk, bread, and a cheap pack of highlighters.
Being a foster parent at twenty-two means explaining a lot. Why papers pile up. Why I sometimes stare at things that aren't there. Why bedtime is non-negotiable.
But that moment with the glasses — that wasn't a battle. It was just seeing. Like finding a receipt you forgot you saved, and realizing the numbers don't matter anymore.