The Self
Meredith scoffs at the paper, slightly crumpled from obviously being shoved into her purse with little to no care. She stares down at the words ‘The Self’, circled in obnoxious red pen, as they glare back at her. Meredith wonders what kind of sick joke this is meant to be, if someone had been watching her life unbeknownst to her, and she has the sudden urge to search the apartment for holes when she gets home. Reading the advice typed up seemingly for her, she makes an indignant noise. ‘Focus only on self-improvement’. It sounded like something she would’ve said a year ago, back when she was a housewife with nothing to do but look pretty. Now she was a single mother, working day and night to make ends meet. Meredith opens the door to the apartment and slips her shoes off at the door, immediately making her way to the bedroom, only to find that Timothy isn’t sleeping, but rather situated on the floor, an array of crayons scattered around him. He’s hunched over a piece of paper with ...