My routine became their routine. I’d make toast with peanut butter, hunt for matching socks in the bag Daphna tossed on my porch, and try to get the kids settled with cartoons before my first video call.
My coffee went cold every single morning. My work suffered. I was joining client meetings late, apologizing for background noise, trying to concentrate while two kids argued about who got the blue cup.
The thing is, I love my nephews. I really do. Marcus with his endless dinosaur facts and Tyler with his sticky-handed hugs. But loving them and being their unpaid, unscheduled babysitter every single day are two completely different things.
I was exhausted. My eyes had permanent dark circles. I’d gained weight from stress-eating because I never had time for proper meals anymore. My apartment looked like a tornado had hit it. Toys scattered everywhere, juice stains on my couch, Goldfish crackers ground into my carpet. God, it was such a mess.
My friends stopped inviting me out because I was always canceling. “Sorry, got the boys again.” It became my default response to everything. My social life died. My dating life was nonexistent.
And the worst part? Daphna acted like she was doing me a favor. Like spending time with her kids was like some kind of privilege I should be grateful for.
She’d pick them up in the evening, fresh from the gym or happy hour with her new boyfriend, while I sat there in the same pajamas I’d thrown on at five in the morning, my hair unwashed, my to-do list untouched.
“How were they?” she’d ask breezily, not even looking at me as she gathered their stuff.
“Fine,” I’d say, because what else could I say?
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