“My sister preps a huge bowl of tuna salad and keeps it for 1 week. I usually won’t touch it after day 3. How long is tuna salad safe in the fridge?”
That’s how the conversation started. Just an innocent question over text from me to my sister, Peregrine. She’d always been the meticulous one—labeling leftovers, freezing soup in perfect portions, lining up the pantry like a grocery store shelf. I was the opposite. I lived with a foot out the door, never sure where I’d end up on a Friday night. But we’d been living together for the past six months since I’d lost my job at the advertising firm.
Peregrine was patient. She never nagged me about rent or chores, just quietly cleaned up my messes, both literal and emotional. We didn’t talk much about why I was still jobless or what I was doing to change that. I pretended I was fine. She pretended she believed me.
When I texted about the tuna salad, she responded right away: “Technically 3-5 days, but if it smells off, toss it.” Then she added, “Are you okay?”
I almost told her the truth. That I’d spent the last three days sitting on the couch, rewatching old basketball games, feeling too embarrassed to send out my resume. But I couldn’t bring myself to type it out. I just replied with a thumbs-up emoji.
