The entire office reeked of a sickly, sweet decay, the kind of smell you can feel in the back of your throat, all because a man named Dave thought it was fine to leave a carton of milk on the counter to bloat and fester for three straight days.
It started so much smaller, with a single pathetic noodle left in the sink.
Then it escalated to a ceramic plate smeared with ketchup, left to ‘soak’ into eternity. His weapon of choice was passive-aggressive filth, a deliberate campaign of disrespect waged from the communal kitchen. He redecorated the office microwave in a Jackson Pollock of marinara sauce and treated our shared fridge like his personal science experiment.
My polite notes were mocked.
My expensive yogurt was stolen, the empty container left in the trash like a trophy. Each time, I was told I was overreacting, that I was the one creating drama.
What the slob didn’t know was that a project manager’s greatest skill is documentation, and I was compiling a secret, timestamped dossier of his every disgusting crime that would turn his plausible deniability into a career-ending exhibit.
The Opening Salvo: The Noodle of Damocles
It started, as these things often do, with a single noodle. A lone, pathetic strand of linguine, clinging to the stainless-steel basin of the office sink like a shipwreck survivor. It had been there since Monday. It was now Wednesday afternoon. In that time, it had transitioned from a pale, yielding thing to a calcified, semi-translucent shard. It was a monument to apathy.
I stared at it, my hand hovering over the faucet. I’m a project manager at Stratify Solutions. My entire job revolves around logistics, accountability, and seeing tasks through to completion. My brain is a landscape of Gantt charts and deadlines. A rogue noodle in a communal sink isn’t just an eyesore; it’s a failure of process. It’s a tiny, greasy rebellion against basic human decency.
The kitchen, our so-called “Recharge Hub,” was a perpetual crime scene. A milky ring of ancient coffee permanently stained the bottom of the carafe. The microwave bore the splattered ghosts of a thousand microwaved lunches. Someone, and I had my suspicions, treated the communal fridge like a science experiment storage unit, a place where artisanal yogurts went to die and forgotten salads liquified into primordial ooze.
But the noodle was different. It was singular. Defiant. It lay there, a pale worm in a silver purgatory, daring someone else to deal with it. I could feel my jaw tighten. My son, Leo, is ten, and even he knows to rinse his own damn plate. Here, in a building full of adults with college degrees and 401(k)s, we were being held hostage by a piece of pasta. This wasn’t just about cleanliness. It was about respect. It was a silent, starchy “I don’t care about you” to every single person in the office.
I grabbed a paper towel, a grimace twisting my lips, and scraped the fossil into the trash. The tiny *tink* it made as it hit the bottom of the bin sounded like a gauntlet being thrown down. I didn’t know who the offender was, but a palpable sense of injustice settled in my gut, heavy and indigestible. A storm was brewing over the Recharge Hub, and it smelled faintly of old garlic.
A Smirk, a Plate, and a Point of No Return
The next day, I saw it happen. It was like watching a nature documentary, the kind where the predator moves with a lazy, unearned confidence. Dave from Sales, a man whose smile never quite reached his eyes and whose cologne arrived in a room three seconds before he did, was finishing his lunch at his desk. He stood up, his ceramic plate smeared with the remnants of what looked like ketchup and regret, and ambled toward the kitchen.
I was on my way to grab a seltzer, and I stopped, my hand on the fridge door. He walked to the sink. He tilted the plate. He scraped the solid bits into the trash with a plastic fork. And then, he simply placed the plate, with its greasy, red film, directly into the basin. He turned on the water for a symbolic, two-second splash that did nothing but give the ketchup a glossy sheen, and then he turned it off. He was just going to leave it there.
Something in me snapped. The project manager, the mom, the person who just wanted to live in a functional society, took over.
“Hey, Dave,” I said. My voice was level, almost casual. He turned, a flicker of surprise on his face. “Are you going to wash that? The sink isn’t a dishwasher.”
He looked at the plate, then back at me. A slow smirk spread across his face. It wasn’t a friendly, ‘oops-you-got-me’ kind of smile. It was condescending. Appraising. It was a smirk that said, *And what are you going to do about it?*
“It’s just soaking,” he said, the lie rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. “I’ll get it later.”
We both knew “later” was a mythical time that would never arrive. His plate was joining a lonely coffee mug from that morning, creating a small, sad colony of neglect. The air thickened with unspoken challenge. I had drawn a line in the linoleum, and he had just tap-danced right over it.
“Right,” I said, my voice tight. “Later.”
He gave a little shrug, a theatrical gesture of nonchalance, and walked out of the kitchen. The smirk was the last thing to go. It lingered in the air like the smell of his cheap cologne. This wasn’t about a dirty plate anymore. This was a power play. And I had just been drafted to the opposing team.
A Declaration in Ketchup
The next morning, I walked into the kitchen with a sense of dread. Dave’s plate was still there, of course, but now it had company. Someone had precariously balanced a yogurt container on top of it, and a sticky drip of strawberry was slowly making its way down the side. But that wasn’t the main event. The main event was in the microwave.
Someone—and I knew, with the certainty of a prophet, who that someone was—had heated up a bowl of spaghetti without a cover. The inside of the microwave looked like a crime scene. A constellation of red splotches coated the white interior, some of it already baked into a stubborn, orange crust. It was a Jackson Pollock of pure, unadulterated disrespect.
This was not an accident. This was a message. It was a direct response to our conversation yesterday. It was Dave, screaming in silent, passive-aggressive marinara sauce, “I do what I want.”
I stood there for a full minute, just breathing. In and out. My heart was pounding a frantic, angry rhythm against my ribs. It was so petty. So unbelievably, infuriatingly juvenile. I had a multi-million dollar campaign launch to manage, a team of ten creatives looking to me for guidance, and here I was, on the verge of a complete meltdown over a trashed microwave.
But it was the deliberateness that got me. The laziness I could almost understand. This was different. This was weaponized incompetence. It was a conscious choice to make a shared space worse, a calculated act of defiance aimed squarely at me. He was testing me. He was waiting to see what I would do.
I grabbed the spray cleaner and a roll of paper towels. As I scrubbed, my knuckles white, I felt a shift inside me. The weary annoyance I’d felt for months was crystallizing into something harder, something colder. It was rage. A clean, pure, righteous rage. He wanted a war? Fine. He had no idea who he was dealing with.
The Home Front and the Fog of War
That night, I was still simmering. I stood at my own, impeccably clean sink, loading the dishwasher with an aggressive precision that made the plates clatter. My husband, Mark, came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist.
“Tough day?” he murmured into my hair.
“You have no idea,” I sighed, leaning back against him. “The Kitchen Offender struck again. This time he redecorated the microwave with a whole can of tomato sauce. I’m pretty sure it was intentional.”
Mark chuckled. It was the wrong response. “Honey, you’ve got to let this go. It’s an office kitchen. They’re all disgusting. You can’t be the official sink police.”
I stiffened. I pulled away just enough to turn and look at him. “It’s not about it being disgusting, Mark. It’s the principle. This guy, Dave, he looked me right in the eye yesterday and basically dared me to do something about it. And then this happens. It’s a complete lack of respect for everyone he works with.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that,” he said, his voice taking on that placating tone he used when he thought I was overreacting. “He’s probably just a slob. Don’t make it a federal case. You’ve got enough stress with the new campaign launch.”
He was trying to be helpful. I knew that. But what I heard was dismissal. He was trivializing it, filing it under ‘Sarah’s silly work drama.’ He didn’t see the simmering injustice, the sheer, unmitigated gall of it all. To him, it was a mess. To me, it was a declaration of war.
“You’re not listening,” I said, my voice flat. “It feels personal.”
“Everything feels personal when you’re stressed,” he countered gently, kissing my forehead. “Come on, let’s watch that show you like. Forget about Dave the Slob.”
I let him lead me to the couch, but I couldn’t forget. He didn’t get it. This wasn’t just about a messy kitchen. It was about a fundamental breakdown in the social contract. And when Mark fell asleep an hour later, I found myself scrolling on my phone, not watching the show, but looking up corporate codes of conduct regarding shared spaces. The battle was being fought at work, but the frustration had followed me home, a toxic fog seeping into the one place I was supposed to feel sane.
The Unofficial Enforcer: The Laminated Mandate
I decided to escalate, but professionally. On my lunch break, I typed up a sign. It was a masterpiece of polite, corporate-approved passive aggression.
*“Your Mother Doesn’t Work Here… So Clean Up After Yourself! :)”*
Underneath, in a slightly smaller, sans-serif font, I added a few friendly bullet points:
* Please wash, dry, and put away your own dishes.
* Wipe up any spills or splatters.
* Label your food in the fridge.
The smiley face was key. It softened the blow, transforming it from a direct accusation into a gentle, communal reminder. It was cheerful. It was helpful. It was utterly unassailable. I printed it, took it to the copy shop down the street, and had it laminated. Lamination was the masterstroke. It said, *This is not a suggestion. This is policy. This is permanent.*
I taped it to the cabinet directly above the sink, centered perfectly. It looked official. It looked clean. I felt a surge of triumphant satisfaction. Let him argue with a laminated sign. Let him smirk at Helvetica Bold. This was a clear, unambiguous statement of expectations. Checkmate.
For the rest of the day, I watched from my desk, which had a clear line of sight to the kitchen entrance. People went in, they paused, they read the sign. I saw a few nods of approval. Janet from accounting gave me a subtle thumbs-up as she passed my desk. I was a hero of the people, a champion for the cleanly.
When Dave went in to refill his oversized water bottle, my breath caught. He stopped. He read the sign. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look chastened. He just… smiled. A small, private, knowing smile. He filled his bottle and walked out, not even glancing in my direction. The smile unnerved me more than an argument would have. It felt less like an admission of defeat and more like an acceptance of a challenge.
The Counter-Offensive
The sign lasted less than twenty-four hours.
The next morning, my laminated mandate was still there, but it had been… amended. Someone had taken a red dry-erase marker and, in a scrawled, aggressive script, had added their own commentary.
Next to “Your Mother Doesn’t Work Here,” someone had drawn an arrow and written, “GOOD THING, SHE’D HATE THE LAME SIGNS.”
After “Please wash, dry, and put away your own dishes,” a new bullet point had been added: “*OR just ‘soak’ them indefinitely. It’s a free country.”*
But the final touch, the real *chef’s kiss* of petty defiance, was a crudely drawn caricature of a frowning woman with glasses and a tight bun, taped next to my cheerful smiley face. Underneath it, the caption read: “THE KITCHEN WARDEN IS WATCHING.”
My blood ran cold, then hot. It was him. It had to be. The handwriting had the same lazy arrogance as his posture. This wasn’t just a defacement; it was a public mockery. He had taken my attempt at creating order and turned it into a joke at my expense. He was escalating, moving the battle from the sink to the public square, and painting me as the villain. The uptight, shrewish “Kitchen Warden.”
I ripped the sign off the cabinet so hard the tape tore a sliver of the laminate finish with it. My hands were shaking. I crumpled the sign, the stiff lamination fighting back, and shoved it deep into the recycling bin, burying it under a pile of discarded printouts.
I looked around the office. People were at their desks, typing, talking on the phone, completely oblivious. But I felt like I was standing under a spotlight. I felt everyone’s eyes on me, imagining their smirks. Was I the office joke now? The crazy lady obsessed with the kitchen? The rage from yesterday was back, but now it was laced with a new, bitter flavor: humiliation.
The Yogurt Doctrine
I decided to ignore him. I wasn’t going to engage. I would rise above it. I would be a silent, stoic example of cleanliness and professionalism. That was my new strategy. It lasted until Thursday.
I have a specific yogurt I like. It’s a fancy, organic, small-batch Greek yogurt with honey and lavender. It’s my one little afternoon indulgence, the thing that gets me through the 3 p.m. slump. It’s ridiculously expensive and comes in a distinctive little glass pot. I had bought two at the beginning of the week. I ate one on Tuesday. The other one, with my name—SARAH—written on the lid in black Sharpie, was waiting for me.
I walked into the kitchen at 3:05, my mouth already anticipating the creamy, floral taste. I opened the fridge. And I stared.
The spot where my yogurt should have been was empty.
I scanned the shelves, my heart starting to beat a little faster. Maybe someone had just moved it. I shifted a container of wilting spinach, a suspicious-looking takeout box. Nothing. It was gone.
A cold certainty washed over me. This wasn’t a mistake. No one else in the office ate this brand. No one would have accidentally grabbed the little glass pot with my name written on it in big, block letters.
And then I saw it. On the top shelf of the trash can, nestled amongst coffee grounds and a banana peel, was my empty glass pot. The lid, with my name on it, was lying beside it. He hadn’t even tried to hide it. He had left the evidence in plain sight, a trophy from his latest raid.
It was so much more than a stolen yogurt. He had invaded my personal property. He had eaten my food. He had taken something that was mine and consumed it, then discarded the evidence where he knew I would find it. It was an act of profound, intimate disrespect. It was a violation.
I just stood there, staring at the empty pot in the trash. The lavender-honey yogurt, my small moment of peace in a chaotic day, was gone. And in its place was a gaping, furious void. My strategy of rising above it lay shattered on the grimy linoleum floor. This was no longer a cold war. It was personal.
Cracks in the Facade
The yogurt incident broke something in me. The anger was no longer a contained, simmering fire; it was a geyser, erupting at inconvenient moments. During the weekly campaign meeting, when a junior designer presented a concept I thought was lazy, I was sharper than I needed to be. “This is derivative,” I said, my voice like ice. “We’re Stratify Solutions, not ‘Generic Marketing Corp.’ Do it again.” The poor kid looked like I’d slapped him. My boss, Frank, gave me a look. I knew I’d crossed a line.
Later that afternoon, Mark called. “Hey, just checking in. How’s the war on grime going?” he asked, a teasing note in his voice.
“Someone stole my yogurt,” I said, my voice flat and dead.
There was a pause. “Oh. Well, that’s… weird. You want me to pick some more up on the way home?”
“That’s not the point, Mark!” I snapped, my voice rising. A few heads popped up over the cubicle walls around me. I lowered my voice to a harsh whisper. “The point is that he did it on purpose. He’s taunting me. He ate my food, with my name on it, and left the empty container in the trash for me to find.”
“Okay, okay, honey, I get it. It’s annoying,” he said, his voice laced with that infuriating calm. “But at the end of the day, it’s a three-dollar yogurt. You can’t let this guy get to you. He’s just an asshole. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I hissed. “You think I want to be this person? The person who is losing her mind over office kitchen etiquette? But he’s making it impossible to ignore. It’s like a fly buzzing around my head all day, every day, and I can’t swat it.”
“I’m just saying, maybe you need to focus on the big picture. The launch is in two weeks…”
“I know when the launch is,” I cut him off. “I’m managing it, remember?”
The line went silent for a moment. “Sarah, you sound really stressed. Maybe this isn’t about the yogurt.”
I closed my eyes, rubbing the bridge of my nose. Maybe he was right. Or maybe he was just another person telling me my anger wasn’t valid. That this constant, grinding erosion of boundaries was something I should just absorb, just let go. But I couldn’t. It felt like if I let this go, I was letting him win. And not just him, but every person who had ever decided the rules didn’t apply to them.
“I have to go,” I said, and hung up before he could reply. I stared at my computer screen, the campaign timeline a meaningless blur. The cracks were starting to show, and I was terrified that soon, the whole damn thing was going to fall apart.
The Cold War Heats Up: Sanctioned Incompetence
I was done playing games. I was going to follow the proper channels. I was going to use the system. On Monday morning, I booked a meeting with Brenda from Human Resources. Her title was “People and Culture Coordinator,” which felt like a cruel joke.
Brenda’s office was decorated in shades of beige and featured several posters with inspirational quotes superimposed over mountains. She smiled at me, a practiced, professional smile that didn’t quite mask her look of weary resignation. HR was the place where joy went to die.
“So, Sarah,” she said, folding her hands on her desk. “What can I help you with?”
I took a deep breath and laid it all out. The plate. The microwave. The defaced sign. The stolen yogurt. I tried to keep my voice even, to present the facts as a series of workplace policy violations rather than a descent into personal madness. I used phrases like “disruption of a harmonious work environment” and “concerns about communal property.”
Brenda listened, nodding periodically. She steepled her fingers. She said “mm-hmm” in all the right places. When I finished, she leaned back in her chair.
“Well, Sarah,” she began, her tone gentle and utterly useless. “It certainly sounds like you’re feeling frustrated.”
I gritted my teeth. “I am frustrated. But more than that, I’m concerned. This behavior is escalating, and it’s creating a hostile atmosphere.” The word ‘hostile’ was a strategic choice. It was HR-speak.
“I understand,” she said, though her eyes told me she didn’t. “But when it comes to things like kitchen cleanliness, our official stance is that we encourage employees to resolve these interpersonal conflicts directly. Have you tried talking to Dave about how his actions make you feel?”
I stared at her. Was this a prank? “I did talk to him. I asked him to wash his plate. His response was to vandalize the microwave and then steal my lunch. A conversation about my *feelings* seems… insufficient.”
“Well, without any concrete proof, it’s just a he-said, she-said situation,” Brenda said, already sounding like she was reading from a script. “I can send out a general-distribution email reminding everyone of the kitchen policies, if you’d like.”
A general email. The corporate equivalent of thoughts and prayers. It was a completely toothless, pointless gesture that would do nothing but maybe annoy the people who actually followed the rules. Dave would read it and laugh.
“So, that’s it?” I asked, my voice incredulous. “Someone can repeatedly disrespect shared spaces, destroy communal property, steal from his coworkers, and the official solution is a memo?”
Brenda gave me a sympathetic shrug. “My hands are tied, Sarah. We’re not in the business of policing the sink.”
I walked out of her office feeling a thousand times angrier than when I’d walked in. The system wasn’t just broken; it was designed to protect the Daves of the world. His plausible deniability was a shield, and my legitimate anger was being framed as an overreaction. The institution had failed me. There would be no cavalry. I was on my own.
The Art of the Gaslight
Brenda must have spoken to him, despite her claims of powerlessness. Because the next afternoon, Dave approached my desk. He leaned against the partition of my cubicle, crossing his arms. It was a posture of casual intimidation.
“Hey, Sarah,” he said, his voice dripping with faux sincerity. “Brenda mentioned you were… upset about some stuff in the kitchen.”
“Upset is one word for it,” I said, not looking up from my monitor.
“Look, I just wanted to clear the air,” he went on, undeterred. “I heard you think I’ve been leaving messes, and I’m honestly baffled. I’m a pretty clean guy. I always wash my dishes.”
The lie was so bald, so audacious, I finally looked up at him. He met my gaze with an expression of pure, unadulterated innocence. It was a masterful performance. He looked genuinely hurt that I would even suggest such a thing.
“You left a plate in the sink for two days, Dave,” I said, my voice dangerously low.
He frowned, as if trying to recall the incident. “Oh, that! Yeah, I was soaking it. I got pulled into a client call and completely forgot about it. My bad. It totally slipped my mind.” He snapped his fingers. “And the yogurt! Man, I am so sorry. I thought it was one of the communal ones from the company lunch last week. I didn’t even see a name on it until I’d already finished. I owe you a yogurt.”
He was good. He was very, very good. He had a plausible, reasonable-sounding excuse for everything. He was weaving a narrative where he was just a slightly forgetful, busy guy, and I was the unhinged woman chronicling his every minor transgression. He was gaslighting me, making me question my own perception of reality. Did I *really* see a smirk? Was the microwave splatter *really* intentional?
“And the note on my sign?” I pressed, holding his gaze.
He actually laughed. A short, dismissive bark. “Sarah, you can’t seriously think that was me. I’ve got better things to do than draw cartoons. A lot of people thought that sign was a little… intense.”
He was flipping the entire script. Now *I* was the problem. My sign was ‘intense.’ My expectations were unreasonable. My anger was unfounded. He stood there, a picture of calm rationality, while I could feel my own blood pressure skyrocketing. He wasn’t just messy; he was a manipulator of the highest order. He was making me the crazy one. And the worst part was, I could see how, to an outsider, it would work.
“Okay, Dave,” I said, turning back to my screen, a clear dismissal.
“Great. Glad we cleared that up,” he said cheerfully, patting my cubicle wall. “Let’s just try to keep the drama out of the office, yeah?”
He walked away, leaving me fuming in a cloud of his cheap cologne and my own impotent rage. He had just declared victory, right to my face.
The Evidence File
If the system required proof, then proof was what I would provide. I was a project manager, for God’s sake. Documentation was my native language.
My new obsession started that Friday. I created a folder on my phone, hidden inside another folder labeled “Receipts.” I named it “Project Grime.” And I began to document.
The first picture was of a half-eaten tuna sandwich, not wrapped, just sitting on a fridge shelf, slowly perfuming the entire appliance with its foulness. I knew it was his; I’d seen him eating the other half at his desk. *Click.*
The next was a massive spill of coffee on the counter, complete with a trail of sugar granules leading away from it like ants marching toward their king. A king who, I noted, was currently laughing loudly on a sales call. *Click.*
I became a forensic specialist of filth. I photographed mugs with lipstick stains left to fester, the greasy interior of the microwave after a popcorn-bag explosion, the clogged sink drain choked with what looked like oatmeal. Each picture was timestamped, a digital breadcrumb trail of his negligence.
It felt insane. I was a 42-year-old woman, a mother and a professional, skulking around the office kitchen like a private detective, taking covert pictures of garbage. I would wait until the coast was clear, whip out my phone, and snap the evidence, my heart pounding as if I were documenting a real crime. In a way, it felt like I was.
The folder grew. It became a mosaic of his apathy, a testament to my sanity. This wasn’t in my head. This was real. Here was the proof: a photo of his specific brand of protein bar wrapper left on the counter, not three feet from the trash can. Here was a shot of the empty milk carton he’d put back in the fridge. Each photo was a small vindication.
One evening, I was swiping through the pictures on the couch, my jaw clenched. Mark leaned over. “What’s that?”
I quickly locked my phone. “Nothing. Just work stuff.”
“Looked like pictures of a dirty kitchen,” he said, a confused frown on his face.
“It’s complicated,” I said, getting up to get a glass of water.
He followed me into the kitchen. “Is this about that Dave guy again? Sarah, are you taking pictures of his messes? Honey, this is getting… a little obsessive, don’t you think?”
There was that word. *Obsessive.* He said it with concern, but it felt like a judgment. He saw a woman unhealthily fixated on a trivial matter. He didn’t see a soldier in a trench, gathering intelligence before the next attack.
“You still don’t get it,” I said, my back to him as I filled my glass. “This isn’t about a mess. It’s about being systematically ignored and disrespected and made to feel like I’m crazy for even noticing. This,” I said, gesturing vaguely at my phone, “is the only way I can prove I’m not.”
“Or maybe,” he said softly, “it’s proof that you’re letting him win. He’s living in your head, Sarah. He’s on your phone. He’s here, in our kitchen, right now.”
I had no answer for that. Because in a way, he was right. The war was no longer confined to the office. I had brought it home with me, and it was threatening to contaminate everything.
The Personal Cost
The fight with Mark that night was quiet, which was somehow worse than yelling. It was a fight of loaded silences and carefully worded statements that carried the weight of a hundred unsaid things.
“I just worry about you,” he said, as we were getting ready for bed. “This isn’t you.”
“What isn’t me?” I countered, pulling my shirt over my head with more force than necessary. “Standing up for myself? Expecting a basic level of common courtesy?”
“No. The… intensity. The constant anger. You came home the other day and nearly bit Leo’s head off because he left a crumb on the counter. A single crumb, Sarah.”
I flinched. I remembered that. Leo had dropped a piece of a cracker, and I had snapped, “Are you kidding me? Is it that hard to wipe up after yourself?” The bewildered, hurt look on his face flashed in my mind. I had apologized immediately, but the damage was done. I had brought the Kitchen Warden home.
“This whole thing is changing you,” Mark continued, his voice heavy with sadness. “We used to talk about our days, about Leo’s school, about that stupid show we both like. Now, all you want to talk about is Dave and the kitchen. He’s the main character in our lives now, and he doesn’t even know it.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, the fight draining out of me, replaced by a hollow ache. He was right. My world had shrunk. My focus had narrowed to a single, infuriating point: Dave. My conversations, my thoughts, my secret photo album—it was all about him. I was spending more emotional energy on my workplace nemesis than on my own family.
The ethical lines, which had once seemed so clear, were now blurry. I had started this to fight for respect and order. But had I become the thing I hated? A person who creates tension? A source of negativity? I was so focused on the injustice of Dave’s actions that I hadn’t stopped to consider the justice of my own. My righteous crusade was costing me. It was costing me my peace of mind, my focus at work, and now, the harmony in my own home.
“I don’t know how to stop,” I whispered to the dark room. It was a confession. I had started a war I thought I could control, but the war was now controlling me. And I was losing on all fronts.
About the Author
