At 9:00 p.m., I heard the back door open. I’d given Daphna a key months ago for emergencies.
She stopped mid-sentence when she saw the refrigerator.
Her eyes moved from the invoice to the calendar and back again. Her face went from tanned and glowing to pale white in about three seconds.
“What the hell is this?” she snapped, yanking the invoice off the fridge.
“An invoice,” I said calmly. “For services rendered.”
“You’re charging me? For watching your own nephews?”
“For three months of unpaid labor, yes.”
“You’re family!”
“Exactly. I’m family. Not free labor. Not your personal daycare service. Not someone whose time doesn’t matter because she works from home and doesn’t have kids of her own.”
She crumpled the paper. “You’ve lost your mind.”
“No. I found my boundaries.”
Her eyes shifted to the calendar. “What’s this supposed to be?”
“My future side business. Morning childcare. $50 per morning. Prepayment required.”
“This is heartless!”
“Do what? Ask to be compensated for my time? Request basic respect?”
She stomped toward the door. “You’ll regret this!”
I raised my mug. “Add it to the invoice.”
The door slammed so hard my windows rattled.
Silence filled the house. Sweet, peaceful silence.
Then, from outside, a scream: “WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE?!”
I walked to the window.
