I was drowning under the weight of it all. My modest pension wasn’t nearly enough to support the five of us, so I had no choice but to go back to work. At 71, very few places wanted to hire me, but I finally found a job at a Route 9 restaurant.
She scrubbed tables, washed dishes, and took orders. In the evenings, after the children went to bed, she knitted scarves and hats to sell at the weekend market to earn some extra money.
It wasn’t a glamorous or easy job, but it kept us afloat during those terrible first months.
Every morning, I would drop the older children off at school and Rosie at daycare, work my shift until 2 pm, pick them all up, prepare dinner, help with homework, and read them bedtime stories until they finally fell asleep.
Six months passed exactly like that, one exhausting day melting into another. Slowly and painfully, we found a rhythm together. The pain never left us; it simply learned to settle more quietly in a corner of our daily lives.
I told myself every day that feeding them and keeping them safe was enough, that I was doing everything I could. But deep down, in moments of honesty, I constantly wondered if I was failing them in some way.
The Mystery Delivery
One morning, after dropping the children off at their usual places, I realized I had forgotten my purse at home. When I returned, a large delivery truck was parked in the driveway.
“Are you Carolyn?” the delivery man asked when he saw me.
“Yes, it’s me.”
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