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Disconcerted and exhausted, I find myself, without the necessity of thought, driving to where I exchange my children for the freedom to work for peanuts. I arrive like clockwork, noticing the unhealthy strain of my truck’s motor, long in need of servicing. My head ached with the idea of what repairs might cost a woman these days.
I shouldn’t enjoy the luxury of daycare for my children but, by the grace of a still inexplicable omnipresent force, my younger sister—lucky enough to marry wealthy—has helped ease the burden of two young children and one fixed income. How well they obey her. The thought pummeled through my self loathing aside. A small twitch of envy paced through my eyelid.
“Mommy!” the youngest shouts, ignoring the nagging of her older cousin crashing Hot Wheels into her tea party. The pair, overzealous and filthy, sprints towards me with star struck haste, my sister in tow.
“Thanks, Chris.” This is my only compensation for my little sister’s gratitude. This method of payment was once awarded at the expense of my dignity. In recent days though, the defeat caused by the reality of lunch money, growth spurts and subsequent shopping trips has etched itself permanently into my heart. I take what she offers without second thought or the interruption of pride.
“Don’t mention it; I love these little tikes,” she coos, stroking the smallest and, without fail, the dirtiest, with a loving caress before wrangling both girls into the back seat with gentle taps on their backsides.
“Mamma, I’s hungee,” whines Natasha, fumbling with her seatbelt.
“I’m hungry!” I bark into the back seat. Her four year old grammar annoys me to no end, particularly after a double shift. “And get your fucking hands off the clean towels!” Don’t they know how hard I work for this?
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Chris.”
“Bright and early,” she smiles, ignoring my scolding, bidding the girls adieu with her index finger.
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