17. Coping Mechanisms #2
By the time I get his bag packed and the three of us dressed—me, him, and this lingering sense of dread—I’m already ten minutes behind.
Daycare’s parking lot is half-full when I pull in.
Parents are going in and out with the usual morning rush energy.
I lift Liam out of the car seat, grab his bag, and sling my purse over my shoulder.
Inside, the air feels heavier than usual.
I head toward Liam’s classroom, but one of the front-desk staff intercepts me with an apologetic smile.
“Amelia, hey—I was going to call you. The toddler room is closed today.”
I blink. “Closed?”
“Two teachers called out sick,” she says gently. “We can’t legally run the classroom without ratio compliance. I’m really sorry.”
My stomach sinks. “Any backup staff?”
She shakes her head. “We’re stretched thin today. You can try the sibling room, but it’s full already.”
Liam chooses that exact moment to whine and bury his face in my neck. I inhale slowly through my nose.
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.”
I walk back to the car in that slow, stunned way people move after being told something mildly tragic. Not the world-ending kind—just the kind that rearranges your entire day in ten seconds. Once Liam is buckled in again, I lean against the driver’s seat and close my eyes.
I have a sprint review meeting at ten. A deliverable due at noon.
A one-on-one with Eric at two. And now a clingy toddler who currently thinks the floor is lava.
I grab my phone and call my mom—it rings twice before going to voicemail.
She’s probably at her doctor’s appointment; she mentioned it last night. I try Destiny next.
“Girl,” she answers, voice half-asleep. “Why are you calling me during my sacred morning hours?”
“Daycare is closed,” I say, already exhausted. “You free?”
“No,” she groans. “I have a shift in, like, twenty minutes. Iris?”
“No,” I say. “Iris is not watching my child while she is barely conscious in the morning and running on Pop-Tarts.”
“Fair,” Destiny says. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
We hang up, and I sit there for a long minute, staring at the steering wheel while Liam babbles softly in the back. Then I say the words that should never, ever have to be uttered by a sleep-deprived working parent:
“…I’m taking him to work.”
Liam coughs and then sneezes directly onto his dinosaur.
“Cool,” I say. “Great start.”
By the time we walk into Nexus Dynamics, I’ve given myself a pep talk, a lecture, and one short fantasy about quitting on the spot and becoming a hermit in the mountains. Liam clings to my hip like Velcro, staring around the office with wide eyes. Callie spots me immediately.
“Oh my God,” she says, standing up. “Look who it is. The real boss.”
Liam blinks at her, then shyly tucks his face into my shoulder.
“Daycare closed,” I explain. “I had no backup.”
“Say less,” she says. “Do you need anything? Snacks? Distractions? A small miracle?”
“Yes,” I say. “All of it.”
She grins. “We can handle this. Put him at your desk first. I’ll come over.”
I walk toward my workstation, aware of a few curious looks from coworkers but nothing hostile. Liam grabs at everything—the badge around my neck, my hair, the pen by my keyboard.
“Okay, no,” I say, moving things out of grab range. “We’re not destroying Mommy’s job today.”
Eric appears a minute later, leaning against the wall with a warm smile.
“Heard we have a tiny guest,” he says.
“Sorry,” I say. “Daycare shut down. I didn’t have anyone else.”
“No need to apologize,” he says. “We’ll figure it out. Just keep him with you. If you need to step out at any point, I’ll cover the meeting.”
Relief hits so hard my knees almost give out.
“Thank you,” I say.
He waves me off like it’s no big deal. But the kindness lands exactly where the exhaustion cracked me open this morning.
We make it through the first thirty minutes with only mild chaos.
Liam sits on my lap while I answer emails, slapping my keyboard every once in a while like he, too, is very stressed about timelines.
When I start the sprint review call, he sits on the floor beside me with a pile of highlighters.
“This is fine,” I whisper to myself. “This is totally fine.”
Ten minutes in, he stands up and toddles toward the trash can.
“Nope,” I whisper-shout, grabbing him mid-air.
A teammate on the call chuckles. “Ah, the joys of WFH but at the office.”
I want to evaporate. Halfway through presenting my section, Liam decides to voice his opinion on lifecycle integration.
Which sounds like: “AHHHHHH.”
Loud. Echoing. Startling. I put myself on mute so fast I nearly sprain a finger. Callie peeks over the divider and mouths, Want help?
I shake my head. “I’m okay,” I whisper.
I’m not okay, but pride is a stupid thing.
We get through it—somehow. I finish speaking.
Eric picks up the overview. Liam settles on my lap again, drooling onto my blouse like a tiny exhausted bulldog.
When the meeting ends, I sag forward. Callie walks over with a pack of fruit snacks and a stress ball.
“For him,” she says, handing me the fruit snacks. Then she holds up the stress ball. “For you.”
I laugh—really laugh—and the tension in my shoulders finally loosens. Of course, not everyone is accommodating.
While I’m heating Liam’s bottle in the break room, a man from accounting glances over and says, “Bringing kids to the office… bold move.”
I offer a polite smile. “Childcare emergency.”
“Mm,” he says, judgment thick. “Situations like this are why young parents struggle in fast-paced environments.”
The words hit harder than they should. I don’t respond. There’s no point. He’s already written me off in his head. I go back to my desk before the burn in my throat becomes visible.
During lunch, while Liam naps in his stroller—thank God, thank God—my phone buzzes with a text from Reid.
Reid: Day okay? I debate lying. I debate crying.
I settle on the closest thing to the truth: Me: Childcare fell through.
Had to bring Liam with me. He cried in the middle of my sprint review lol. A few seconds later, he calls.
I answer quietly. “Hey.”
“You brought him to Nexus?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“You should’ve called me,” he says.
I rub my forehead. “And you would’ve done what? Teleported?”
“I could’ve… been there,” he says, frustrated. “On the phone. Talking you through it. Something.”
“You’re in class right now.”
“I would’ve stepped out,” he says. “Amelia, you shouldn’t have had to handle that alone.”
The guilt in his voice slices right down the center of me.
“I wasn’t alone,” I say softly. “Callie helped. Eric covered part of the meeting.”
Reid goes silent for a beat too long.
“…Of course he did.”
There it is—that sting again. Not quite jealousy. Not quite resentment. Just the painful reminder that my daily struggles are being witnessed by someone who isn’t him.
“I’m not replacing you,” I say quietly.
“I know,” he says. “I just hate that I’m missing so much. That you’re doing the hardest parts and all I get are the leftovers.”
My throat tightens. “They’re not leftovers.”
“Feels like it,” he says, voice small. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”
I close my eyes. “Me too.”
By the time the day winds down, I’m wrung out. Liam is fussing. My head is pounding. And the comment from accounting is still lodged under my ribs. When we finally get home and I set Liam on the floor with his blocks, I call my mom.
She answers on the second ring. “You sound tired.”
“I am,” I breathe.
“Long day?”
“Long week,” I say. “Long everything.”
She hums knowingly. “Tell me.”
So I do. Everything. The schedule. The teething. The sprint review. The judgment. The guilt in Reid’s voice. The feeling that no matter what system we build, something else cracks. Mom listens quietly, not interrupting. When I’m done, she exhales softly.
“Amelia,” she says, “you’re not failing. You’re just human.”
I swallow hard. “It doesn’t feel that way.”
“Because you’re doing the work of three people,” she says. “Even with Reid trying—and I know he is—you’re the one here every day. Tired doesn’t mean weak. And scared doesn’t mean wrong.”
My voice shakes. “What if we don’t make it?”
She pauses—not long, but enough.
“Then you’ll survive,” she says. “But baby… you won’t know unless you both stop pretending the practical stuff is enough. Love needs more than logistics.”
The truth of that settles heavy and certain in my chest. More than schedules. More than effort. More than calls twice a week. We need to talk about the fear too. The loneliness. The resentment. The quiet places where love feels stretched thin.
Mom softens her voice. “You’re strong. But you’re not supposed to carry everything.”
I close my eyes. “I know.”
Except… I don’t. Not really. Not yet. And that realization breaks something open in me that I’ve been trying to hold together with optimism and color-coded plans. This—this is the emotional toll. And no routine is going to fix it on its own.
By the time I finish the call with my mom, I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my head resting in my hands.
Liam is nearby on the floor, stacking blocks and knocking them over like it’s his job.
The sound should be soothing—repetitive, harmless toddler noise—but all it does is echo how frayed I feel.
I lift my head and blink away the burn behind my eyes. I’m tired. Not the physical tired that coffee fixes. The deeper tired—bone-deep, soul-deep—the kind that comes from carrying more than your arms were built to. Liam knocks the tower over again and claps for himself. I force a smile.
“You’re very proud of that destruction,” I say.
He babbles something in agreement. I should play with him.
I should get on the floor and be the fun mom who forgets about work stress and daycare emergencies and grown-up worries.
But my arms feel like sandbags, and my chest is tight in that quiet, warning way.
Instead, I reach for my phone and stare at it.