March - The Late Thaw

Tara woke to the sound of water. Not the peaceful kind. The gutter outside her apartment was jammed again, and the snowmelt was pooling on her cracked steps. She’d meant to knock the ice loose last week, but there hadn’t been time. There’s never time.

She tiptoed past the kids’ room, tossed a half load of laundry into the dryer, and packed a cold lunch for her shift at the care home: boiled eggs, peanut butter crackers, and an apple that had gone soft on one side. She left the soft side in.

By 6:25 a.m., she was zipping up Mia’s jacket, tugging the hood over her curls, and warming up the car with a plastic spatula on the windshield. No scraper. It broke last week. Normally, she’d drop Mia off at the local Head Start on her way to work, but this week, the hours were cut back without warning. “Funding delays,” the sign said. “We hope to resume normal hours soon.”

Tara didn't bother asking when soon was. The director looked just as tired as she felt.

At work, Tara clocked in 14 minutes late. Third time this month. Her supervisor gave her that look but didn’t say anything. By midmorning, she was helping Mr. Weiss eat cream of wheat while thinking about dinner. She’d planned to grab ground beef, but it jumped to $6.29 a pound. Sloppy joes would have to wait. Pancakes again, probably.

That afternoon, a coworker mentioned her SNAP balance dropped. Tara checked hers during her break. Still the same, for now. But she saw a bulletin on the staff fridge: Budget freeze in effect. Some federal programs may experience delays.

Back home, she microwaved frozen peas and made toast for the kids. Jayden talked about a red bird he saw from the bus window. "It looked like fire," he said. "It had a black face."

"A cardinal," she told him. "They come back when winter's ending."

After the kids were asleep, she stood outside with a cup of lukewarm coffee and looked up at the gray slush of clouds. A sandhill crane called from somewhere across the marsh, its voice cutting through the stillness like something ancient. The thaw had started early this year. The sugar maples were already dripping. But the cold wasn't gone, not yet. Neither was the sense that everything was just a little more brittle than it used to be.

April - Torn Edges

It was barely light out when Tara opened the group chat and saw the news: two vans parked outside a trailer in Appleton. No official statement, just a grainy photo and a caption: “They took a guy from the door. Said they didn't need a warrant anymore.”

“Can't risk it,” Sandra wrote. “I'm staying home for a while. Sorry, T.”

That was it. No emoji. No promise to make it up later. Just silence. Sandra wasn't undocumented. She was part of a status program for people brought here young. Tara didn't remember the name. What mattered was that Sandra had been in Wisconsin since second grade, and now she was afraid to go outside.

She’d watched the kids during snow days, late shifts, and school closings. She’d driven Tara to urgent care once when her battery died. Now she was gone. At work, Tara helped a resident with Parkinson’s steady his hands while he brushed his teeth. Her mind drifted. What if the school called? What if Mia got sick during the night and no one could watch Jayden? Her life worked on duct tape and favors. One of the key pieces had just snapped.

May - Warnings on the Wind

Jayden came home with a crumpled flyer and a granola bar he didn't eat. “Mom, they said there's no bus next week.”

Tara unfolded the note. Starting Monday, his school route was suspended indefinitely. Driver shortage. They were sorry for the inconvenience. Families within two miles would need to arrange their own transportation. Jayden's school was 1.8 miles away.

The school had already cut music and library hours. Then the lunch staff got reshuffled. Now the buses. Tara didn't know who to be mad at. Nobody seemed to have answers. Everything was "under review" or "pending resolution."

She posted in a local Facebook group looking for ride shares. The only response was from a guy with no profile picture offering to "work something out, cash or otherwise." She blocked him.

June - Shelter from the Heat

The thermostat read 91. The building's A/C unit hadn't kicked in yet this season. Management said parts were backordered. Tara filled bowls with ice and set them in front of fans. Mia sat on the kitchen floor in her underwear, holding a Popsicle like it was medicine.

Rent was going up. Not much, just thirty bucks, but it was enough to break her plan. Tara had finally scraped together a few hundred dollars in savings after tax season. She’d called it her “summer buffer.” Now it was already spoken for. She stared at the lease renewal email for a full hour before replying. She didn't want to move. Couldn't afford to, anyway. Security deposits didn't grow on trees.

July - Fire Season

Fourth of July used to be one of Tara's favorite holidays. Before the kids, before the late shifts and budget planning, she’d sit on the hood of her old Corolla and watch fireworks with a can of Miller Lite in her hand. It had been simple.

This year, nothing felt simple. Two towns over, someone lit a dumpster fire during the parade. Nobody was hurt, but it made the news. A few nights later, there were reports of people showing up at county board meetings in full tactical gear. Not threatening, technically, just present. That word kept coming up. A presence.

At the fireworks show, she noticed more than just the sky. One group of guys stood near the edge of the field, not clapping, just watching. No kids, no blankets, just boots and long sleeves in the heat. A sheriff's deputy talked with them quietly, then walked away.

August - Back to School, Sort of

Jayden's new backpack was already ripping by the second week of school. The bottom seam frayed where the bus steps caught it, and one of the zippers stuck halfway every time. Tara had bought it at the dollar store in August, along with two spiral notebooks, a box of off-brand crayons, and three pairs of socks. She couldn't afford to replace it yet.

At orientation, the school handed out paper forms instead of updating the online portal. “District software is under review,” the secretary said vaguely. Some teachers were using personal email. The school psychologist had been let go. Art class was now once a month, shared with music.

September - Invisible Costs

Tara felt the sore throat on a Wednesday morning. Not a sharp pain, just a slow ache that tugged behind her ears and made coffee taste like metal. She ignored it. She always ignored it, at first. By Friday, her joints ached, her eyes burned, and the left side of her face felt puffy. But she still went to work. Paid time off was long gone, and she couldn't afford to lose a shift.

At the clinic, the line was long. Tara filled out the paperwork with shaking hands, circling “yes” next to “recent loss of coverage?” even though she wasn't sure. Her Medicaid renewal had come in the mail weeks ago. She’d filled it out and sent it back. No one ever confirmed receipt.

“Looks like it's under review,” the receptionist said. “You can still be seen today, but you'll get a bill if coverage doesn't clear.”

October - The First Frost

Tara woke to a thin layer of ice on the inside of her windshield. Not snow, not the thick buildup that comes later, just a silvery glaze that caught the streetlamp light and made everything outside look like it had stopped breathing.

A week earlier, her friend Luz had packed up and left. No goodbye. Just a text: “Heading to Indiana. Staying with cousins. Can't do it here anymore.”

One more name off the emergency contact list. One more gap in the web. Tara was starting to feel it in her sleep. Not nightmares exactly. Just the same recurring dream. She wakes up with her jaw clenched, always before the dream ends.

November - Red Horizons

It started with a post. Just a screenshot of a news story, something about new restrictions at the border, and a single sentence: “How is this okay?”

Tara didn't like it, didn't comment, didn't even share. But she saw it. She also saw the replies. “Maybe if people followed the rules.” “Cry harder.” “Get a job.”

By noon, the woman who’d posted it—an old classmate who now worked at the county library—had deleted her account. At work, one of the nurses was suddenly gone. No explanation. No notice. Just off the schedule.

“She got written up for her bumper stickers,” someone whispered. “Not even political. Just... not neutral.”

December - The Shutdown

The letter came folded wrong. No envelope. Just crimped paper, machine creased and coffee stained. “Due to the lapse in federal funding, benefit issuance for the upcoming month is temporarily suspended. Further updates pending.”