It started with a simple question:
“How long is tuna salad good in the fridge?” “3–5 days,” my sister Peregrine replied. “But trust your nose.” Then she added:
“Are you okay?”
I wasn’t. I’d lost my job months earlier and had been crashing at her apartment ever since. She never pushed me. Never complained. Just let me drift. On day four, I stood picking at the tuna salad—knowing it was a little off, but it felt familiar. That’s when she walked in, took the bowl, and said gently,
“You don’t have to punish yourself with expired tuna.”
That night, I admitted:
“I don’t know how to start again.”
She said,
“Then we start small.”
We made a list:
Update resume.
Shower.
Apply for jobs.
Eat fresh food.
Breathe.
Little by little, things changed. I got a job. Then I found out she’d been quietly covering all the bills. We made a new list:
Budget. Side gigs. Pay off debt.
We worked hard and celebrated small wins. When our neighbor Regan came to us heartbroken, she welcomed him too—always giving, even when she was running on empty.
Eventually, I got a promotion and surprised her with a trip to the coast. She said,
“I’m proud of you.”
Then, she lost her job.
But this time, I said:
“Let’s start small.”
She did. And she landed a better job.
We built something new—community, support, resilience. One night, I saw her making tuna salad again.
“Didn’t we learn our lesson?” I joked.
She smiled. “I’ll finish it before day three.”
Now, whenever someone asks how long tuna salad lasts, I think:
