Being a single mom is exhausting on its own. Long shifts, short nights, constant responsibility. Adding unnecessary battles on top of that—especially ones you never asked for—can slowly wear you down in ways you don’t notice until something finally snaps.
My name is Laura. I’m 39, a full-time nurse in the trauma unit at our local hospital, and the kind of tired that doesn’t go away with sleep. My shifts run anywhere from twelve to fourteen hours, often starting before the sun comes up and ending long after it’s gone.
It’s just me and my son, Evan. He’s twelve. His dad has been out of the picture for years, and while that once terrified me, we’ve found our rhythm. We’ve become a small, steady team.
Evan doesn’t complain. If anything, he takes on more than he should. He insists on helping—loading the dishwasher, folding laundry, and during winter, shoveling the driveway after school so I can pull in late at night without climbing over snowbanks in soaked scrubs.