Shira’s face hardened, and with each muscle twitch, I watched the day’s progress unravel
72 hours until President’s Day.
Angela flitted into the office, humming some gospel tune off-key. “Thank the L-rd for vacation!” she cried. “I’m gonna get m’self a pedicure — can’t decide between Leopard Print or Gold Jazz.”
I stifled a chortle.
“Whatchaboutyou?”
“Kid duty.”
An elongated grunt. Angela’s way of empathizing.
My phone buzzed. Predictable — Daniel was doing the morning shift. Which meant I’d get an SOS from him every 60 seconds until 9 AM: “What happened to Tali’s socks?” “Shira refuses to wear her sweatshirt!” “Ari had an explosive diaper!” “I can’t do this!!!!”
Why am I the address? I’d simmer. You’re a parent, too — can’t you handle things yourself?
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