Family Leave
By Michelle Garren Flye
My phone rings as I’m standing on the curb. I hesitate. I’ve never been one of those who can walk and talk on a phone at the same time, and I have a meeting in the building across the street in five minutes – one of those can’t-miss-it, don’t-dare-be-late meetings. But the light is red and the ringing is persistent. I answer.
“Mommy?” Katie’s voice sounds small over the large world of wireless airwaves.
I hold back a sigh. Katie is just five, but she’s known how to dial a phone for more than a year. She uses that skill to call me at least once a day. Why did I think today would be different?
“Katie, honey, Mommy’s working,” I say, glancing at the light. I’ve got a couple of minutes, tops, to placate the latest of my daughter’s fears. Her teachers say she’s experiencing separation anxiety. My husband blames my job, which keeps me away much longer than the 25 to 30 hours I’d planned to work.
“Mommy, why can’t you come home and play with me?” Katie sounds close to tears. I close my eyes.
I won’t do this. I promised myself I’d go back to work when she started kindergarten. I’m doing this for all of us. I open my eyes and look at the woman reflected in the plate glass windows across the street. Smart, dressed for success in a gray suit, wilting in the late summer southern sunshine. My briefcase feels heavier than when I left my office.
“Honey, we’ve talked about this,” I say. “Mommy’s working now. You’re staying with Aunt Joy in the afternoons, just until I get off work.”
“But, Mommy, they laughed at me,” Katie whines.
Grant me patience, I whisper to whatever gods may listen out for working mothers. A bus whooshes past me, the exhaust mussing my hair. “Who laughed at you, sweetheart?” I ask.
“Everyone!” Katie sounds vehement. “It was my turn to start show and tell and everyone wanted me to show what I got for my birthday. And I didn’t have anything but the new underwear you gave me, so I showed them that.”
I hide a smile, feeling guilty. How could I forget? The children in Katie’s class always bring a birthday gift for show and tell after their birthdays. Katie had wanted to show her new baby doll. In the hustle and bustle of the morning, I’d forgotten to give it to her. The underwear was new, pink and ruffled, but hardly what her teacher wanted her to bring for show and tell.
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” I say, setting down the heavy briefcase. The light changes, but I step away from the curb instead of crossing the street.
“Mommy,” Katie says, “I just need you to come home. I miss you.”
The lost sound of her voice, nearly drowned by the sound of onrushing traffic, brings tears to my eyes. Another bus passes me, and this time the phone’s signal breaks. I can no longer hear my daughter’s voice. The light has changed back to red, but it doesn’t matter. I turn and walk the other way. Today, the meeting will happen without me.
