I’d clutch my coffee like it was the only thing holding me together while my three kids turned breakfast into a whirlwind—cereal flying, oatmeal splattered, and sibling squabbles before the sun was fully up. Madison, the eldest and self-declared household manager, tried keeping Ethan on track. He, of course, treated that as a challenge, slipping down the hallway in socked feet with laughter echoing behind him. Ben, the middle child, stayed wisely quiet, sipping his juice and staying out of the crossfire.
I loved them fiercely. But some mornings? I just needed a breather. Especially when I glanced at the clock and realized—once again—I was running late.
By the time I dropped them off, I was already bracing myself for work. My boss, Margaret, wasn’t exactly known for her flexibility. She seemed to view my single-parent life as a personal inconvenience rather than a reality. Her cool tone and narrowed eyes made every late arrival feel like a strike against my worth.
I barely made it through the office door when Laura, my one work friend, gave me a knowing look. “Rough morning?”
“Oatmeal warfare,” I sighed, slumping into my chair. But before I could elaborate, I felt a shift in the air. Margaret was behind me.
Her voice was calm but pointed. “You missed the memo about professional attire?”
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