Laundry frames the end of my day, stacks of clean underwear and yet-to-be-folded t-shirts, drifts of unmatched socks and mountains of wrinkled jeans. Upturned baskets are scattered across the living room like tiny tables awaiting a tea party. But I’m not in the mood for a midnight soiree, I’m drinking from my own deep reservoirs of self-pity. I’m exhausted and the voices of discouragement in my head are clanking above what my heart knows to be true. What did you do all day? Why don’t you ever get anything done? You’re never going to have time to do something that …
