Chapter 3 - The Strike Begins
The next morning, at 5:20 AM, the alarm on my nightstand chimed.
For eight years, that alarm meant one thing: feet on the floor, coffee brewing, four lunchboxes packed with cut crusts and ice packs, gym clothes folded, and breakfast baking in the oven before the first child stumbled downstairs.
Today, I didn't get out of bed.
I pulled the down comforter up to my chin, turned off the alarm, and opened an e-reader on my tablet. I read three chapters of a mystery novel while the autumn rain tapped softly against my windowpane.
By 6:45 AM, the sounds of chaos began echoing through the hallway.
Heavy footsteps pounded past my door. Door handles rattled.
“Mom?” Blake’s voice was sharp, laced with panic. He knocked twice. “Mom! It’s almost seven! The kids aren't up, Rowan’s science project board is still in the trunk of my car, and Noah is crying!”
I didn't answer. I didn't unlock the door.
At 7:10 AM, Kelsey began hammering on the wood. “Lorraine! This isn't funny! Miles threw up his juice because nobody made his oatmeal, and I have a prenatal ultrasound in forty minutes! Who is watching Noah?”
I calmly placed a bookmark in my digital novel, stood up, put on a silk robe, and opened the door three inches.
Kelsey stood in the hallway, her hair half-curled, wearing a satin robe, holding a screaming two-year-old Noah on her hip. Behind her, Miles was running barefoot through the hall with a marker in his hand, and Sadie was crying because her gymnastics leotard was still at the bottom of a wet laundry basket in the utility room.
“Good morning,” I said pleasantly.
“Are you sick?” Kelsey demanded, her eyes wide with frantic rage. “The house is falling apart! Nobody packed lunches!”
“I’m not sick,” I replied smoothly. “I’m retired.”
Blake pushed past his wife, his tie hanging unfastened around his collar. “Mom, what are you talking about? I have a executive presentation with regional directors at eight-thirty! I can’t be late!”
“Then I suggest you get Rowan into the car and make some toast, Blake,” I said softly. “Parenting is hard work. You’ll get the hang of it.”
“You’re doing this out of spite because of the credit card!” Kelsey shouted, her voice reaching a shrill frequency that made Noah cry harder. “You’re acting like a child!”
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“No, Kelsey,” I looked her straight in the eye. “I’m acting like a houseguest. And as a houseguest, I don't do laundry, I don't pack lunches, and I certainly don't raise other people’s children. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have packing to do.”
I closed the door in their faces and locked it.
