Two days later, my phone rang at 7 AM.

It was Mark. He sounded frantic.

“Mom! Thank god you answered.”

“What is it, Mark?”

“Brittany called out sick. She has the flu. I have a massive presentation at 9 AM, I cannot miss this. I need you to come over right now and watch the kids.”

“Oh,” I said flatly. “The professional isn’t available?”

“Mom, please! Don’t do this right now. I’m begging you. Just come over. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

“I’ll be right there.”

I didn’t put on my sweatpants. I didn’t grab my tote bag of toys.

I put on my best Sunday slacks. I put on a blazer. I made a pot of black coffee. And I sat at my computer.

I stayed there for forty-five minutes, typing furiously. My hands were shaking, but not from sadness.

When I pulled into his driveway, it was 8:30 AM.

I walked through the front door. Mark was running down the stairs, putting his suit jacket on.

“Thank god,” he sighed, looking at his watch. “The kids are in the living room watching cartoons. There’s cereal on the counter. I have to go, Mom, I’m going to be late.”

“I’m not staying,” I said.

He stopped in his tracks. He turned around. He looked at my blazer. He looked at my face.

“What?” he asked, confused. “Mom, you have to. I have a meeting.”

“That sounds like an issue for your professional childcare provider.”

“Mom! Brittany is sick! I told you!”

“And I told you I’m not staying.”

“Are you punishing me?” he yelled, his face turning red. “Because I hired someone else? Because you’re jealous?”

“I’m not jealous, Mark.”

I opened my purse. I pulled out a crisp manila folder. I held it out to him.

“What is this?” he asked, not taking it.

“It’s an invoice.”

He grabbed the folder. He ripped it open. He stared at the piece of paper inside.

“What… what is this number?”

“I stayed up last night doing the math,” I said, my voice completely dead. “Forty hours a week. Fifty-two weeks a year. For three years. Multiplied by the twenty-five dollars an hour you are happily paying Nana B.”