I was dragging myself through another exhausting day at the insurance office — the kind of cramped little place where fluorescent lights buzz louder than the employees and where people only remember you when something goes wrong. I was behind on everything, running late picking up groceries, already picturing my kids bouncing off the walls at home while my mom tried to keep up.
My mom had stepped in again that evening because our nanny couldn’t make it. She’d already pulled a long shift at the hospital, and I heard the fatigue in her voice when she called earlier asking if screen time was okay for the kids. Of course it was. She’s held my life together ever since my ex-husband walked out two years ago declaring he “wasn’t built for family life.” He left, and she filled his place without blinking.
