I turned to her. “No.”
Carl shrugged. “See? She gets it.”
I looked back at him. “She has a broken arm.”
He snapped, “And plenty of grandmothers babysit their grandkids. Nobody pays thousands of dollars when family is right here.”
I said, “How exactly did you think daycare pickup was going to happen?”
He looked annoyed that I was asking. “I told your mother where the place was. I figured she could manage.”
I just stared at him.
My mother had been in our city less than twenty-four hours. She had one working arm. She was not even listed as an authorized pickup.
My mother started to say something, probably to calm things down, because that is what she does. I cut her off.
“Mom, you are not doing childcare. You are not doing anything. I will handle this.”
Carl rolled his eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”
Instead, I became quiet.
The next day at work, I finally got Nina on the phone during lunch.
I said, “Why didn’t you call me yesterday?”
“I almost did,” she said. “But Carl told me you were tied up in meetings all day and that he’d already cleared it with you. He sounded so sure. He said your mother was moving in to help and you both agreed.”
I closed my eyes. “We did not.”
She let out a breath. “I figured something was off.”
I told her I would call her back.
Not just at Carl for firing her without telling me. At myself for not seeing what kind of man thinks an injured woman is a staffing solution.
When I got home that evening, the house smelled of onions and detergent.
I walked into the kitchen and stopped.
My mother was trying to stir something on the stove with one hand while a pile of half-folded laundry sat on the table. A basket was on the floor. Two of my kids were arguing over markers. Another was crying because he wanted a different cup.
She saw me and said quickly, “I was just trying to help a little.”
Then she glanced toward the living room.
