But while Glenda is sweet and competent and takes good care of them, her husband is a certified asshole as well as an alcoholic, and he’s at home in the evenings, so I don’t want the kids around that.

“I’m really sorry,” Tina says again. “But I’m loading up now to take Marshall to the ER.”

I hold back a sigh, because Tina doesn’t need guilt from me and it seems I sigh a lot lately and I need to change that. “It’s okay,” I tell her, but it’s really not.

I’m fucked.

At least I can still cuss in my thoughts, although that doesn’t give me much solace right now.

Annabelle lets out a cry of despair and I spin around to find Levy piling all of his carrots on Annabelle’s plate. She doesn’t like them either so she’s completely mortified to be given extra.

“Stop, Levy,” I tell him, but he ignores me. At six years old and being the middle child, it somehow seems to give him license to disregard my direction. I haven’t figured a way to work around that yet, so I let it go by saying, “It’s okay, Annabelle. I don’t expect you to eat all of them.”

Annabelle smiles at me then turns and sticks her tongue out at Levy.

I take another deep breath, let it out . . . pray for God to give me patience and an understanding boss.

Then I dial my manager, Chris.

“Chris Bellis,” he answers his phone haughtily, as if he’s the most important man in the world. Asshole boss.

“It’s Julianne,” I say hesitantly, already dreading his response. “Um . . . my babysitter fell through and I can’t make it in tonight.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Unless you let me bring the kids in,” I add hastily. “I swear they won’t cause any trouble.”

Please, God, don’t let them cause trouble.

Finally, he talks. “Unacceptable, Jules. Our policy is strict on having children here.”

“Well, then . . . I’m sorry, but I can’t make it. You’ll have to find someone to cover me,” I say with what I hope is a firm voice, but I’m terrified I just screwed the pooch.

“Well, then I’m sorry too, Jules, but I’m going to have to let you go if you don’t show tonight,” he says just as firmly back to me. “That will be twice in one week you’ve had childcare issues and it’s obviously becoming a problem.”

“No,” I say quickly, and then try to add on reassurances. “It’s not a problem. Just bad luck. Chris, I’ve worked for you more than two months now and this is the first time I’ve asked to take off.”

“And I sense this won’t be the last,” he says crisply. “I’ve had single mothers work for me before, and they’re never reliable. I don’t have time to cover someone who doesn’t have enough responsibility—”

“Please, Chris,” I beg him, tears once again pricking at my eyes. “I really need this job.”

He’s not moved. “If you will come by tomorrow evening, I’ll have your final paycheck ready and you can turn in your store key.”

I don’t even consider arguing with him any further. At this moment I am beyond exhausted. Utterly defeated. I don’t have it in me to even care about how that extra money each week is what enabled me to feed and clothe three hungry kids that I’d never planned on having.

My head turns on the pillow and I look at the digital clock on the bedside table. Almost eleven o’clock and I can’t sleep. Annabelle doesn’t have that problem, and she’s pressed up against me with one arm wrapped around my neck. This is her usual sleeping position the last four months since she came to live with me in this dinky little apartment, but I’m used to it so that’s not what’s keeping me up.

I can’t go to sleep because I’ve gotten to the point where I’m used to surviving on only a few hours each night. By the time I’d get home from my shift at the gas station convenience store, I’d be lucky to get four and a half hours before I had to get up to start my workday all over again at the nursing home.

That’s the story of Julianne Bradley’s life.

Work, sleep. Work, sleep. Work, sleep.

Actually, that’s not quite right. It’s more like Work. Sleep. Take care of kids. Work. Take care of kids. Cook and clean for Glenda and kids. Work. Sleep.

Not anywhere in that daily grind is there time budgeted for me, unless you count the quick five minute shower I take each morning. It’s amazing the little things that you easily cut out from your life as being unimportant when you’re on a time crunch. I can be showered and dressed for work in about fifteen minutes now. That’s because I quit wearing makeup and usually put my wet hair up in a ponytail or bun. That leaves me adequate time to get the kids up, dressed, and fed breakfast before Glenda arrives. She handles getting Levy and Rocco on the bus and then stays at my apartment with Annabelle. The boys get home around four, about the time I’m getting off work. I live only a few miles from Sweetbrier, so I’m usually home by 4:15 p.m. I get Levy and Rocco started on their homework and help with whatever they need. I then spend about an hour in Glenda’s apartment, which is right next door, and I’ve got a good routine going: Mondays and Thursdays, I dust and clean the bathroom; Tuesdays and Fridays, I vacuum and mop; Wednesdays, I get to anything that can’t be held off until the next scheduled day. About the only thing I don’t do is their laundry, and I told Glenda no way was I washing Bill’s underwear.

She didn’t care. She was just happy not to do the nasty stuff like toilets and even happier yet to have me do the cooking.

So after cleaning Glenda’s place, I’d come back home to start dinner, making enough for her family and mine, and in between help the kids out if they were still doing their homework. If I was lucky, dinner was ready before I had to leave for work at the gas station, and I’d be able to cram some food down my throat too. If not, Tina—who is also my neighbor, but one flight down—took over feeding the kids while Glenda took her portion home for when Bill arrived. Thinking about this just makes me all the more tired and depressed.

There is one benefit though to not having much time to myself. That means there’s precious little time for me to give in to my insecurities. All of the doubts as to whether I’m good enough to take care of Melody’s children, or whether I’ve bitten off more than I can chew but I’m just too stubborn to admit it to anyone.