Devon hadn’t left the house in four days.
Since the layoff, time had gone slack — no alarms, no emails, just the hum of the fridge and the heavy quiet that came when your worth started feeling like a line item someone deleted. His wife, Cora, had given him space, but he could feel her worry hanging in the corners of each room.
That morning, she didn’t ask. She just handed him his coat and said, “Get in the car. We’re going for lunch. Your brother’s meeting us.”
Devon didn’t argue. He didn’t have the energy to say no.
They went to a small place by the pier, one he used to like. Devon sat across from Cora and Marcus, picking at fish tacos and listening more than talking.
Marcus leaned back with a familiar, crooked smile. “You know, when I got fired back in 2019, I thought it was the end. But it turned out to be the crack that let something better in.”
Devon gave him a look. “And then you got your real estate license.”
Marcus shrugged. “I still don’t love it every day. But I started sleeping again. Laughing. And realizing the job never made me — I did.”
Cora reached over and squeezed Devon’s hand.
“Your doctor called in that prescription refill,” she said gently. “They want to check in next week too.”
Devon nodded slowly. The antidepressants had helped before — enough to get him talking to a therapist. Enough to take the edge off the self-blame. He’d stopped taking them when things got "better." Maybe too soon.
That night, Devon opened the new bottle and set it by his nightstand. He made a list of small goals for tomorrow: call the clinic. Respond to one job email. Walk to the corner store.
They weren’t grand. But they were movement.
And for the first time in a week, he fell asleep without staring at the ceiling.
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