It’s 6 p.m., the afternoon fading into evening after another grueling workday, and I’m walking home. But this isn’t just a walk—it’s a slow, heavy trudge of shame and defeat. Each step sinks me deeper into a truth I can’t escape: by the standards we humans cling to, I’ve failed. My wife’s scholarship teeters on the edge, ready to slip away because I couldn’t scrape together the tuition money. Deep down, the shame burns—not just for myself, but for her.
When I stood at the altar and promised her a life together, there was an unspoken vow woven into it: I’d bring success, stability, a future we could build on. Instead, here we are, sinking beneath the weight of my shortcomings. Success means something different to everyone, but in my world, this feels like its opposite—a betrayal of everything I meant to give her. I’ve let her down, and that failure gnaws at me, sharper than any hunger or debt.
I can still see that one day, clear as yesterday, when we sat waiting for her to finish her shift. Rent was due, and we both knew the check would bounce if a miracle didn’t show up. Then, out of the blue, angels appeared—maybe strangers with kind hearts, maybe friends who saw the panic in our eyes—and they pulled us through. I keep wondering if they’ll come again, if there’s still some mercy left for a man who’s stumbled this far. I don’t cry, but I feel her sorrow and distress like a second skin. It drapes over us both, turning even the warm blankets on our bed into something cold and distant, as if our struggles have leached the comfort from them.
Tonight, I got home drenched, the rain soaking through my clothes without me even noticing. I’d been too lost in the spiral of my thoughts, replaying every misstep, every “what if.” The shame stuck to me, heavy as the waterlogged jacket I peeled off. Who’d believe a story like this? Who could understand this quiet, suffocating desperation? Maybe you’re reading this for a reason. Maybe you’re here because you need something I can offer. I’ve got skills—not every skill under the sun, but some that might matter to you. Maybe there’s a way I can help, a way we can lift each other up. Please, reach out. The night’s still a few hours off, but my nightmare’s already creeping closer. I need to light a candle—not just to push back the dark, but to keep the bills from closing in and swallowing us whole.
M.G.Fossing