Checked Off Before I Answer

The vending machine by the elevators is the only light in this hallway right now. My phone sits on the bench beside me, screen still on, still open to the family chat titled Dad's Nights.

Someone posted the week's grid an hour ago. Monday through Sunday, a column for each of us. There's already a green checkmark next to my name for tonight. I hadn't answered yet. I was still deciding whether to say I have a thing tomorrow, which isn't even true, I just wanted someone to ask instead of assume.

Nobody asks anymore. I live twelve minutes away and my job lets me leave whenever, so somewhere along the way I became the default answer to a question nobody bothers phrasing as a question.

I type it's fine, I've got it, and delete the fine. I type I've got it and stop there too, cursor blinking after got, because the honest version of that sentence doesn't end with a period. It ends with a question about whether anyone would still recognize me if I said no once.

I don't send that version. I send I've got it, put the phone face down, and go back in to relieve my mother, who thanks me like I chose this.