“My sister makes a big bowl of tuna salad and puts it in the fridge for a week. I normally don’t touch it after the third day. How long can you really consume tuna salad?
I wrote my sister Peregrine a simple text, and that’s how the conversation started. She has always been the one who pays attention to details. Every leftover has a label, soups are frozen in proper portions, and pantry products are arranged like they are at a store. What about me? Not me. It was always a little crazy, and I never knew where I would be on a Friday night. But I had been living with her for the past six months after I lost my job at an ad firm.
Peregrine had been very patient. She never bothered me about paying rent or cleaning. She just quietly put things back together, both in the flat and in my life. We didn’t talk about my lack of work very much, and I acted like everything was fine. She acted like she believed me.
She wrote back right away when I asked about the tuna salad: “Technically, it’s good for 3–5 days.” But if it smells bad, get rid of it. “Are you okay?” she asked next.
I almost told her the truth: I had spent the last three days on the couch, watching old basketball games, too scared to update my resume. But I couldn’t make myself say it. I texted a thumbs-up emoji instead.
I stood in front of the fridge that night and poked the tuna salad with a fork. It was clearly more than three days ago. But there was something right about eating it nonetheless. Like I was going to spoil on the inside too. Why not eat something that went well with it?
At that moment, Peregrine came home sooner than expected. She caught me in the middle of a sniff, bent over the bowl like a raccoon.
She added, “You don’t have to punish yourself with bad tuna.”
I was shocked as I looked up. “What are you talking about?”
She carefully removed the bowl from me and put it in the sink. She murmured softly, “I know you’re having a hard time.” “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”
My face started to feel hot. “I’m fine,” I said in a harsh voice. But my voice broke.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept going over what she had said. How I used jokes and other things to avoid saying I was trapped. I walked into her room at 3 a.m. She was still up and reading.
“I don’t know how to start over,” I said.
She grinned and put down her book. “Let’s start with a small step.” “We’ll make a list tomorrow.”
We sat at the kitchen table the next morning and wrote everything down: update my resume, apply for three jobs every day, and take a shower every day. With a smile, she even added “eat fresh food.” It made me giggle for the first time in a long time.
She called in every day. Some days I only did one thing, while other days I sent out a lot of applications. I began to move forward slowly.
Then, one afternoon, a recruiter called. There was a marketing job with a startup in the area. I almost let it go to voicemail, but Peregrine yelled from the other room, “Answer it!” I did what they asked.
The interview was planned for the next day. I was scared, but she helped me get dressed in something other than a sweatshirt. She asked me practice questions over and again until I stopped stammering.
She had sushi takeout on the table when I returned home from the interview. She quipped, “I thought we could skip the tuna salad tonight.” We clinked glasses of cheap sparkling water to celebrate that the interview went better than I thought it would.
I got the job offer a week later. It wasn’t fancy, but it was something. Peregrine hugged me tightly and cried. I finally felt like I could breathe again.
I started to notice things as I became used to the job. Peregrine always seemed tired. Her eyes were dark, and she always seemed like she was on the verge. One night, I heard her sobbing in her chamber.
I knocked and saw her sitting on the floor with banknotes that hadn’t been opened yet.
She admitted that she had been paying for all of the rent and utilities alone. She had reached the limit on two of her credit cards. While I was falling apart, she was keeping everything together.
I felt guilty in my stomach.
I told them, “I’ll pay you back.” We all sat down and created a new plan. On the side, I did freelance work. She worked on the weekends. We planned out how to spend every penny.
I made her favorite dish, chicken piccata, one Saturday, and then we sat down to talk about our money. We discovered that night that we had finally paid off her credit cards.
We glanced at one other and then burst out laughing. We were happy, tired, and finally free.
