Mia
It doesn’t hit me right away.
At first, there’s relief—pure and dizzying—like I’ve been holding my breath for weeks and only just remembered how to let it go. I drive without really seeing the road, hands steady on the wheel even though my chest feels hollow. The city blurs past, lights smearing into one another as the adrenaline slowly drains from my body.
I quit.
The words replay in my head, over and over.
I quit.
By the time I pull into my mom’s hospital parking lot, the relief has started to fade. By the time I shut the engine off, it’s almost gone completely.
Because relief doesn’t pay bills.
I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, eyes squeezed shut, and finally let myself think about what I just did.
No paycheck.
No health insurance.
No steady income.
My stoma
