I tried setting boundaries. I really did.
“Daphna, can you please text me first?” I asked one evening when she came to pick them up.
“Sure, sure,” she said, scrolling through her phone. “Hey, did I tell you about this new guy I’m seeing?”
“I’m serious,” I interrupted. “I need advance notice.”
She looked up, surprised. “Amy, it’s not like you have anywhere to be. You work from home.”
There it was. The assumption that working from home meant I was just sitting around in my pajamas watching Netflix all day, waiting for something to do.
“I have meetings and deadlines… and a job.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “I know, I know. But it’s flexible, right? That’s the whole point of working from home.”
The following week, I sent her a text on Tuesday morning: “Can’t watch the boys today. I have a big client presentation at nine.”
At 5:35 a.m. the next morning, my doorbell rang.
I didn’t even get out of bed. I just texted her: “Daphna, I told you I can’t today.”
My phone buzzed with a reply: “Quick favor. Promise it’s the last time. PLEASE. I’ll make it up to you.”
It was never the last time.
Last week, things escalated. Tyler spilled an entire container of strawberry yogurt onto my laptop keyboard while I was in the bathroom. The keys stopped working. Strawberry goop seeped between the letters. I had to use my phone to finish a project that was due that afternoon.
The same day, Marcus found dry-erase markers in my desk drawer and decorated my living room wall with colorful hearts.
“What happened here?” I asked, staring at the damage.
Marcus looked proud. “I made art! Auntie said she likes color.”
“When did I say that?”
“You wear colorful shirts.”
The next morning, I missed a crucial call with a potential client because Tyler was having a meltdown over the “wrong” cup. When I finally called the client back, they’d already gone with someone else.
That account would’ve been worth $2,000.
