A few months ago, I would have leaned forward before he finished. High visibility meant career momentum. Ugly timeline meant they trusted me to handle it. Good money meant more security for the kids.
Now I only looked at the folder and felt tired. “How ugly?”
“Ten extra hours a week for the next month. Maybe fifteen during the final review period, but I’ll try to keep it reasonable.”
Martin’s version of reasonable had once involved calling me at eleven-thirty p.m. on Christmas Eve to ask if I had “two quick thoughts” on a restructuring memo.
I sat back in my chair. Ten extra hours.
Ten more hours away from the children. I’d miss dinner, homework, bedtime. Billie’s startling public service announcements. CJ pretending he didn’t care whether I read his newest pages. Bianca asking if I’d noticed the new moon phases chart she’d taped inside her notebook.
Ten more hours away from the house that had only just started feeling safe again.
“I can’t do it,” I said.
Martin blinked once, then leaned back slightly. “You can’t? Or you won’t.”
“Both.” The word felt strange in my mouth. Good strange.
Martin waited for me to correct myself. When I didn’t, he frowned. “This is exactly the kind of project you usually want.”
“I know.”
“And the bonus isn’t small.”
“I know that too.”
He gave me the look that saidyou’re inconveniencing me. “So what’s the issue?”
I almost gave him the easy answer. Family stuff. Bad timing.
Instead, I told the truth. “Mother’s Day is coming up,” I said. “It’s a hard time for my family. For my kids especially. I need to be home more, not less.”
Martin’s expression shifted in the particular way some men reacted to the uncomfortable topic of grief. He wasn’t unkind,exactly. Just uncomfortable at the reminder that I was a widower.
“Right,” he said after a beat. “Of course.”
I nodded once.
He tapped the folder with two fingers, already withdrawing from the emotional portion of the conversation. “If circumstances change, let me know.”
“They won’t.”
That surprised both of us a little.
Martin stood, folder tucked back under his arm. “All right. We’ll find someone else.”
“Thanks.”
After he left, I stared at the closed door for longer than necessary.
I had said no even though I could handle the work and could definitely use the money, but my children needed me more. The understanding came with a strange loosening beneath my ribs, like some overworked part of me had finally unclenched enough to breathe.
By six, I was leaving on time, which still felt almost illegal. I’d stayed late for as long as I could remember, but now, my priorities were in order.
I had my coat over one arm and my laptop bag in hand when I heard quick footsteps behind me.
“Mr. Lawrence?”
