Not their cleaner.
Not their emergency childcare.
Just Grandma.
At half past seven, Zoe asked whether I would stay for breakfast.
“No, sweetheart.”
“Why?”
“Because I have things to do at home.”
She frowned.
“What things?”
“Things for myself.”
She seemed puzzled.
Then she asked something that stayed with me.
“Do grown-ups get to do things for themselves?”
I smiled.
“They certainly should.”
By eight, both children were asleep.
I washed the dinner dishes.
Not the laundry.
Not the floors.
Just what we’d used.
Then I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea.
At 9:15 p.m., the front door opened.
Joel came in laughing.
Stephanie followed, carrying her handbag.
“Everything all right?”
“Lovely,” I said.
Joel glanced toward the kitchen.
“Did you manage the washing?”
“No.”
He stopped smiling.
“I told you, I was here for the children.”
Stephanie looked between us.
Then she said, “Have you eaten, Dorothy?”
