The soundtrack of my life was the whir of the breast pump, the hum of the washing machine, and the soft cries of my baby — and sometimes, when the exhaustion cracked my heart open, my own.
Still, every morning, before the sun even thought about rising, I forced myself out of bed.
To keep a roof over our heads and milk in the fridge, I worked as a janitor at a downtown financial company. I started before sunrise, scrubbing floors and wiping down glass walls before the first employees arrived.
It was hard, thankless work, but it paid just enough for rent, diapers, and formula. I reminded myself daily that it was temporary — that one day, things would get better.
The only reason I hadn’t collapsed entirely was Ruth, my mother-in-law. She wasn’t just family — she was my anchor.
While I worked, she cared for my son, feeding him, singing softly to him, and keeping our tiny apartment warm with her steady kindness.
“You just keep going,” she would say every time she saw me near tears. “You can break down later — after he’s asleep.” Without her, I would have fallen apart on day one.
That morning, after finishing my shift, I stepped out into the icy dawn. The air bit at my skin, my thin jacket doing little to fight off the cold.
I could see my breath fogging in front of me as I walked toward the bus stop, clutching my worn tote bag and thinking only about getting home to my baby.
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