You have a job to do.
A job that does NOT involve mentally replaying your boss rail—
“Whatcha doing?”
I nearly drop the label maker. Ben’s standing in the doorway in her pajamas, clutching Frederick like he’s the only thing keeping her grounded. Her curls are a mess. I’ll have to fix those in about thirty minutes.
“Morning, sweetie. Just making the mudroom less muddy.” I gesture at my work. “See? Your hooks are lower now. And I made a special spot for Frederick when you get home from school.”
Her eyes go wide. “Frederick gets his own spot?”
“Obviously. He’s part of the morning routine.” I show her the little shelf I cleared. Perfect snail-sized. “Right here. So he can watch you get ready.”
She sets him on the shelf experimentally. Steps back. Tilts her head like she’s considering a big life decision or something.
“He likes it,” she announces. Then she pulls a sheet of stickers from her pocket. Little stars that say BRAVE. I have no idea where she got them. At school?
She peels one off and sticks it directly on Frederick’s shell.
“For helping,” she explains. Very serious. “He helps me do the Brave Rules. So he gets a brave sticker.”
My throat goes tight. This kid. This anxious, wonderful, heartbreaking kid just gave her stuffed snail a participation award and I’m about to cry in a mudroom at six fifteen in the morning.
“That’s perfect, Ben. He’s going to love that.” I give Frederick a pat.
“Do you think Daddy will like the new mudroom?”
Daddy.
Right.
Your boss who you absolutely did not have sex with.
Nope.
Never happened.
My face grows hot. Thank God she’s five and doesn’t understand why adults turn into tomatoes for no reason.
“I think he’ll love it,” I manage.
She nods, satisfied, and wanders back toward the kitchen. Probably to ask Rosa for an early breakfast even though it’s not time yet.
I finish labeling. Move the umbrella stand to the corner. Separate and store the seasonal gear. Set aside a small basket for “things that need to go upstairs” so we’re not constantly running between floors.
It’s efficient. The kind of system that should easily shave ten minutes off the morning routine.
When you realize you’re basically a professional organizer now.
Marie Kondo’s “Joy at Work” but the anxious version.
I’m testing the new chime settings with Luis when I hear it.
Marco’s voice. Coming from his office down the hall. Raised. Not yelling exactly. But tense. That controlled anger that’s somehow worse than actual yelling.
I shouldn’t eavesdrop.
I’m absolutely going to eavesdrop.
