Being a working mom meant I was always trying to keep up, but I never imagined the moments I was missing could matter so much. Looking back, the signs had been sitting right in front of me all along.
My name is Rachel, and for most of my 34 years, I thought I understood what a normal Tuesday looked like. Coffee gone cold by 9 a.m., work emails stacking up before lunch, and the constant hum of a life that never quite slowed down.
My six-year-old son, Ethan, was the bright spot in all of it.
***
Ever since Ethan started kindergarten, he’d loved drawing. Every Friday, he’d burst through the front door, waving a fresh piece of construction paper as if it were a treasure map.
I thought I understood what a normal Tuesday looked like.
“Mommy, look! I made another one!”
I’d smile, kiss the top of his head, and glance at it while stirring pasta.
“That’s beautiful, buddy. Is that Biscuit?”
“Yeah! And that’s you, and that’s the playground!”
I loved every drawing he brought home.
“I made another one!”
Biscuit, our scruffy golden mutt, would thump his tail against the floor as if he understood he was famous. I’d stick the drawing on the fridge next to the 20 others, promising myself I’d really look at it later. Later never quite came.
***
Lately, things had gotten harder.
I’d taken on a new work-from-home schedule, and picking Ethan up on time had become a small daily miracle I kept failing to accomplish. Some afternoons, I’d pull up 10 minutes late; others, 20.
Lately, things had gotten harder.
Ms. Carter, my son’s kindergarten teacher, always waved kindly from the doorway, but I could feel the guilt piling up like unopened mail.
***
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