I sink into my desk chair and stare at the ceiling.
Coach is right. Whatever I’m doing, it’s working. Zayden is showing up. He’s following protocol, and making progress.
I should feel proud.
Instead, I just feel worried.
Because I’m starting to care about whether he’s okay. Not his shoulder—him. The guy who shows up on four hours of sleep because he doesn’t know how to let people down. The guy who teases me about my spotty dating history.
The guy I absolutely cannot afford to care about.
I close my eyes, take a breath, and remind myself of the rules.
4
BEST LAID PLANS
Zayden
The kitchen is warm, the radiator clicking softly in the corner when I enter. And Mrs. Hendricks is crying.
Not dramatic, heaving sobs—just quiet tears streaming down her face as she sits across from me at the kitchen table, twisting a tissue in her hands. She’s been with us for two years. She knows Maisie’s favorite cereal, her bedtime routine, and which stuffed animal she needs when she’s sick. She’s the closest thing to stability my daughter has besides me.
And she’s leaving.
“The baby came two weeks early,” she says, dabbing at her eyes. “A little girl. Six pounds, two ounces. They’re both healthy, but my daughter—she’s overwhelmed. She needs me.”
“Of course she does.” I keep my voice steady even as my stomach drops. “Family comes first.”
“I’m so sorry. I know the timing is terrible, and Maisie—” Her voice cracks. “I love that little girl.”
“She loves you too.” I reach across and squeeze her hand. “When do you need to leave?”
“Saturday. I already booked the flight.” She winces. “I know that’s only a week; I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” It’s not okay. Saturday is the day before the road trip starts. “We’ll figure it out.”
She gives me a watery smile. We both know “figure it out” isn’t a plan. And this is an absolute disaster.
Through the doorway, I can hear Maisie in the living room, the soft murmur of her cartoon. She doesn’t know yet. Doesn’t know that the woman who braids her hair and makes her favorite mac and cheese and knows exactly how she likes her sandwiches cut is about to disappear from her life.
Another person leaving. Another hole to fill.
• • •
That night, after Maisie’s asleep, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling.
One week. Mrs. Hendricks leaves Saturday. Road trip starts Sunday—Chicago, Detroit, then Boston. Which means I need someone to watch Maisie from Sunday through Wednesday while I’m gone.
Four days. I need to find coverage for four days.
I rub my hands over my face and try to breathe.
This is the part no one tells you about single parenting. It’s not the tantrums or the sleepless nights—it’s the logistics. The constant math of making a life work when you’re the only adult in the equation. Every road trip is a puzzle. Every person I depend on is one emergency away from leaving me stranded.
I roll onto my side, then onto my back again. The pillow is too flat. The room is too quiet. I can hear my own heartbeat, steadyand insistent, reminding me that I’m awake when I should be sleeping.
Tomorrow I have practice, a PT session, and somehow I need to find time to interview nanny candidates. The schedule is a Tetris game I’m losing.
