“My sister makes a huge bowl of tuna salad and stores it in the fridge for a week. After day three, I usually don’t touch it. How long can you really consume tuna salad?
That’s how the conversation began: I sent my sister Peregrine a casual text. She has always been the one who pays attention to detail. Every leftover is labelled, the soups are frozen in proper portions, and the pantry products are arranged like they are at a store. Me? I’m not like that. It was always a little crazy, and I never knew where I would be on Friday night. But for the last six months, I had been living with her because I lost my job at an ad agency.
Peregrine had been very patient. She never bothered me about cleaning or paying rent. She just quietly put things back together, both at the flat and in my life. We didn’t talk much about me being out of work, and I acted like everything was fine. She acted like she believed me.
When I asked her about the tuna salad, she answered right away, saying, “Technically, it’s good for 3–5 days.” But if it smells bad, get rid of it. Then she asked, “Are you okay?”
I nearly revealed to her that I had been lying on the couch for the past three days, watching old basketball games and feeling too scared to update my résumé. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it. I texted a thumbs-up emoji instead.
That night, I stood in front of the fridge and poked the tuna salad with a fork. It was definitely after day three. But eating it anyhow seemed like the right thing to do. Like I was also going bad on the inside. Why not eat something that went 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 sighed and continued, “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 threw it in the washbasin. “I know you’re having a hard time,” she added softly. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”
My face got hot. “I am fine,” I answered firmly. But my voice broke.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept going over what she had said. How I had used jokes and other things to avoid admitting I was stuck. I went 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 her book down. “Let’s start with something little. We will compile a list tomorrow.
We got down at the kitchen table the next morning and wrote it all 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 weeks.
She called in every day. Some days I just sent out one application, but other days I sent out several. I started to move forward slowly.
Then, one afternoon, a recruiter called. A startup in the area was looking for someone to do marketing. I almost let it go to voicemail, but Peregrine yelled from the other room, “Pick it up!” So I did.
The interview was going to happen 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 stuttering.
She had sushi takeaway on the table when I got back from the interview. She quipped, “I thought we would skip the tuna salad tonight.” I informed her that the interview went better than I had thought it would, and we toasted with cheap sparkling water.
I got the job offer a week later. It wasn’t fancy, but it was something. Peregrine hugged me tightly, her eyes full of sadness. At last, I 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 seemed like she was always on edge. I heard her crying in her room one night.
When I knocked, I saw her seated on the floor with banknotes that hadn’t been opened yet.
She admitted that she had been paying all the rent and bills alone. She had used up all of the money on two of her credit cards. She had been keeping everything together while I came apart.
I felt guilty in my gut.
“I’ll pay you back,” I said. We all sat down and created a new plan together. On the side, I did some freelance work. She worked on the weekends. We planned how to spend every dollar.
I made her favourite dish, chicken piccata, one Saturday, and we sat down to talk about our money. That night, we realised that we had finally paid off her credit cards.
We exchanged a quick glance before bursting into laughter, filled with happiness, exhaustion, and a sense of freedom.