The Weight of an Empty Box

The last 48 hours have been a complete blur. Yesterday and today at work were just... chaotic. The launch of the Nintendo Switch 2 has been pandemonium. From the moment the doors opened, it was a frenzy of fulfilling duties and processing a mountain of orders. You'd think we were handing out gold bars, not game consoles. I spent two days in a whirlwind of cardboard boxes, receipts, and frantic customers.

The hardest part of the day, though, wasn't at work. It was the moment I walked through my own front door tonight. My son ran up to me, his eyes wide with the kind of hope only a child can have, absolutely convinced I'd be bringing one home with me.

When I showed him my empty hands, his face just crumpled. The tears started instantly. It’s a gut-punch, that sound. I tried to explain that nearly all the units were pre-paid for months in advance, and that there simply weren't any left for me to buy. I left out the part where I couldn't afford one right now even if the stockroom was full of them.

My own cupboards were nearly as bare as my hands, so after getting him settled, I had to drag myself back out to the shop. With what little I had until payday, I made sure to get his favourite things – the little pizzas, the good yoghurts. My needs can wait. Seeing him fed and happy is the priority.

There's a small silver lining. I think I'm due a bit of a pay increase next month. Maybe, just maybe, I can look at getting the new console on credit then. It feels a bit ridiculous when I think about it. He has a perfectly good Switch already, one we play on together almost every day. I'm not sure what's so wrong with that one, but to him, the new one is everything.

So tonight, with him fed and content, my dinner consists of a packet of powdered soup, a couple of painkillers for my aching back, and a cold can of cider.

It’s all part of the job, I suppose. Both of them.