read at the kitchen island. She set down her briefcase and sat still wearing her coat. I poured her decaf tea.
“I’m terrified I’ll drop the ball,” she said. “If I stay late, I feel like a bad mother. If I leave, they’ll think I can’t handle this promotion.”
I squeezed her hand. I’d known a version of that fear when Daniel was little and I worked part-time. I told her the children were doing well and that she deserved time to adjust. She smiled through a few tears. It
