There's a specific kind of exhaustion I feel most days on my way home. Some of it is from work itself. But most of it is from what's waiting after it. I catch myself hoping, almost every evening, that today will be different. Quieter. Easier. I don't know why I keep expecting that, given how rarely it actually happens. But I do. Then I open the door, and it's the opposite. Complaints before I've even taken my shoes off. Shouting from one room or another. Something got broken,