I feel a peculiar lack of congruence between my objective circumstances and my subjective emotional state. Logically, working these warehouse doubles means I can afford her preschool, the better district, the detached house in a decent cul-de-sac — all the indicators of successful provisioning. But every night, driving past the identical lawns and darkened windows, knowing I've missed another bedtime routine with my daughter, there's this… phantom ache. It's not distress, precisely, more like a low-level systemic dysfunction. I am providing optimal conditions for her development, yet I experience this persistent, low-amplitude sense of failure. It doesn't make sense.