35. Parenthood Redux Too Long
PARENTHOOD REDUX TOO LONG
Liam’s scream hits before I even turn off the ignition. It cuts through the car door, high and furious, the kind of sound that makes every muscle in my body brace. I close my eyes for half a second, forehead resting against the steering wheel, then pull the keys out and force myself to breathe.
We practiced this. We talked about this.
New school. New classroom. Big kid stuff.
Another wail shakes the air. I get out and circle around to the passenger side.
Through the window, Liam is red-faced in his booster seat, fists balled, kicking the back of the front chair like it personally offended him.
When I open the door, he turns the full blast of his outrage on me.
“I don’t wanna go!” he yells, heels slamming into the seat again. “No school, Mama!”
His voice cracks on the last word. The anger isn’t clean. It’s wrapped around fear. I unbuckle him and crouch so we’re face to face. His curls are wild, cheeks flushed, eyes shiny in that way that warns me tears are seconds away from turning into full meltdown.
“Hey,” I say softly. “We talked about this, remember? Big kid class. New toys. New friends.”
“I don’t want new friends,” he says, lower lip wobbling. “I want home.”
God. Same, kid.
I smooth my hand over his hair. “I know. New things are hard. But you’re brave. And I’m coming back for you after work. Same as always.”
He shakes his head so hard his curls bounce. “Promise?”
“Every time,” I say. “You know I don’t leave you.”
He presses his forehead into my shoulder with a little whine, fingers digging into my jacket.
For a second I just hold him, letting his weight settle against me.
He’s heavier now, all limbs and stubbornness and opinions.
We’re out of baby territory. We’re fully in kid land.
Which apparently involves a lot of yelling.
“Okay,” I murmur. “Two deep breaths, then we go inside.”
He drags in air like he’s lifting something heavy. Lets it out in a shudder. Does it again. By the second exhale, he’s not calm, but he’s not at full nuclear meltdown either. I’ll take it.
Inside the preschool building, the hallway is a mess of tiny backpacks and bigger emotions.
Another kid is crying by the cubbies. One is singing to himself like he’s in a musical.
Parents move through it all with the same tired focus I feel—get them settled, get to work, don’t cry in the parking lot.
Liam clings to my hand until we reach his classroom.
Ms. Parker greets us with that too-bright teacher smile that says she’s on her third coffee already.
“Good morning, Liam,” she says. “We’ve got new blocks today.”
He looks at the blocks. Looks at me. Tightens his grip on my fingers.
“Do you want to put your backpack in your cubby?” I ask.
He presses closer to my leg. “No. Go home.”
Here we go.
I crouch again, ignoring the burn in my knees. “Buddy. I have to go to work. You have school. When I’m done, I come back. Same as before. Okay?”
He stares at me like I’m asking him to cross a battlefield.
I lower my voice. “Two choices. You can walk in like a big boy, or I can carry you in. Either way, you’re staying. Which one do you want?”
His brows pinch. He hates choices like that. He wants Option C: go home and watch cartoons. I wait him out.
Finally he mutters, “Walk.”
“Good,” I say. “I’m proud of you.”
He lets go of my hand long enough to hang his backpack. Then he grabs my jacket again, just to make sure I haven’t evaporated. It takes another few minutes of coaxing and Ms. Parker showing him the block table before he’s even semi-distracted. When I straighten, my back pops.
“I’m going now,” I tell him.
He whips around, panic flaring hot in his eyes. “No! Mama, no!”
He runs at me, arms out. I catch him, heart twisting, because his fear is so raw and familiar it might as well be mine.
“I’ll be back after snack time and play time and nap time,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “You’re safe here. Ms. Parker will call me if you need me. You know that.”
He’s breathing hard, like he ran a mile. Tears spill over and soak into my shirt collar.
“Five more minutes,” he begs.
“We already used our five,” I say gently. “If I stay longer, it’ll be harder to leave. For both of us.”
He doesn’t understand the logic. He just knows it’s not what he wants. His cries go up another octave.
Behind me, I hear another parent saying, “Look, Emma, Liam’s staying, you can too,” which is exactly the kind of pressure I don’t need. Ms. Parker steps closer.
“Do you want to bring Dino to circle time?” she asks, reaching for Liam’s stuffed dinosaur sticking out of his backpack. “He can sit with you.”
Liam sniffs, eyeing the dinosaur. His grip on me loosens by a fraction. I take the opening.
“I’m going to hug you one more time,” I say. “Then I’m going to work. You’re going to school. We’ll tell each other everything later. Deal?”
He hesitates, then nods once. I hug him tight, breathing him in. Then I pass him to Ms. Parker before I lose my nerve. He screams when my hands let go. Full volume, full body. His little arms reach for me over her shoulder, and every instinct in me screams to grab him and run.
Instead, I keep my feet planted, give him one more wave, and step out of the classroom. I make it to the end of the hallway before my own eyes burn. In the parking lot, my phone buzzes. Reid: How did drop-off go? I stare at the screen for a second, swallowing around the lump in my throat.
Amelia: Rough. He didn’t want me to leave. Amelia: Again. The three dots appear, vanish, reappear. Reid: I’m sorry. I hate that you have to do that alone. Reid: I wish I could be there to help. He wishes a lot lately. I do too. Amelia: He calmed down. He’ll be okay. Reid: So will you.
I lean against the car, letting that sit for a second. I know he means it. I also know that when the school calls because Liam spiked another fever or threw up or bit someone—God forbid—that call is coming to me. It’s easier not to think about that part.
Traffic is its usual mess, but my brain doesn’t focus on it. It circles the same loop it’s been running for months: I’m a wife. I’m a mom. I’m an employee. Somehow I’m supposed to excel at all three without breaking anything important.
When I finally slide into my chair at Nexus, five minutes past when I meant to, I half expect an email from Eric already waiting with a subject line that starts with “Quick thing” and ends with a headache.
Instead, there’s a calendar invite.
1:1 – Amelia / Eric – Today 3:00 PM.
No description. No context. My stomach does a weird little flip. That could mean anything. Good. Bad. Neutral.
“Morning,” Callie says, dropping into her seat across from me. “You look like you’ve already lived three lives today.”
“Preschool drop-off,” I say. “So… yes.”
She grimaces. “How bad?”
“Clinging to my neck, screaming my name, bargaining for five more minutes like a tiny lawyer.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
She glances at my screen. “Ooh. Mystery meeting.”
“Don’t say it like that,” I mutter. “My anxiety can hear you.”
She smirks. “Eric doesn’t do surprise bad news. He’s a ‘let’s talk about how to fix this’ guy. If you were in trouble, you’d already know.”
I know she’s probably right. It doesn’t stop my brain from adding this to the growing pile of Things To Worry About Later.
I dive into my tasks. For a little while, I find that familiar zone where the rest of my life quiets and logic takes over.
Debug this. Adjust that. Answer the email.
Add the comment. It’s one of the only spaces that feels fully mine.
Around ten, my phone vibrates. A photo from Reid pops up—him holding a coffee, hair damp, hoodie half-zipped, standing outside some campus building I’ve never seen in person.
Reid: Survived my morning presentation. Think I nailed it.
Reid: How’s my favorite chaos manager?
I smile despite myself.
Your favorite chaos manager is on her second coffee and fought a dragon at drop-off.
Dragon won the first round.
Reid: You still showed up. That’s a win.
Reid: Call me later if you’re not dead?
I have a 3pm with Eric. I’ll let you know if I’m promoted or fired.
Reid: Promoted. Obviously. Love you.
The warmth that rises in my chest isn’t simple. It’s love, yes. It’s also pressure. Because if something does happen at work—if this meeting is a shift, a step up, a heavier load—it’s one more thing we have to figure out how to carry together while living separate lives.
I shove that thought into a mental box and label it “Later.”
By the time three o’clock rolls around, my palms are damp. Eric’s office is small, cluttered with whiteboards and sticky notes and a plant somehow still alive despite fluorescent lights. He looks up when I knock on the doorframe.
“Amelia,” he says. “Come in.”
I sit, trying not to read into his neutral expression.
“You’re not in trouble,” he says immediately, like he can hear my heartbeat from across the desk.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Okay. Good start.”
He smiles a little. “You’ve been carrying a lot of the Nexus Dynamics account. The last few months especially. Your work on the rollout and the follow-up has been solid. Thoughtful. You’ve kept us ahead of things we didn’t even know we needed to worry about.”
A flush creeps up my neck. “Thank you.”
“So,” he says, leaning back. “We want to move you into a lead role on the next phase.”
My brain stutters. “Lead role?”
“You’d be point on strategy and implementation,” he says. “You’d still work with the team, but you’d be the one steering the ship day-to-day. It comes with a raise, obviously. And more visibility. More responsibility.”
The word hangs there. Responsibility. Like my life doesn’t already feel like a Jenga tower stacked with it.
“I…” I start, then stop. “That’s… a lot.”
“In a good way,” he says. “I know you’ve got a full plate with Liam and commuting and life. I wouldn’t offer this if I didn’t think you could handle it. But I also know it’s not a small ask. So I don’t need an answer today.”