Silence Before the Storm

You know that feeling when you’re washing dishes? The warm water gently soothing your hands, the rhythmic motion almost meditative? Scrubbing away grime, it’s not just the plates getting clean. Your mind clears too. The chaos of the day fades, leaving a brief, precious moment of peace. You glance around your spotless kitchen, exhale in satisfaction, and sink into the couch, basking in pride.

Yeah… me neither.

Okay, maybe once in a while during those days when I’m home alone and feel like I have all the time in the world. But most days? Washing even a single plate feels like going to war. I start, then stop. My toddler is clinging to my leg. I start again, then stop. He’s demanding to be held. Or worse, he’s suspiciously silent, just out of sight, systematically dismantling the living room.

And then there’s that kind of silence. Not peace, but a warning.

I call his name. No response. No telltale crash. No delighted squeal. No reassuring sounds of chaos. Just silence.

Then… Footsteps. Quick, tiny footsteps from upstairs.

My stomach sinks.

Oh no.

He’s figured out how to open the door.

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