The day is overcast, and the rain intermittent. I hate days like these, with Justin’s boundless energy and nowhere for him to run around or explore.

“Mommy, can I go outside?”

Justin is still in his pajamas, sporting renegade curls. He clutches a Matchbox car. As he asks, he clambers onto the stool at the counter while I run hot water into the sink.

“No, baby. It’s raining.”

“No, it isn’t,” he opposes.

“Well, it’s too wet.”

“Can we play Candy Land?”

“No. Mommy’s busy. Go play with your car.”

“It’s not a car.” He presents the object in his hand. “It’s a school bus.”

I sigh. “Go play with your bus.”

My patience is thin. Usually, his inquisitive nature is a delight. Yesterday morning, he’d studied an anthill beside the walkway for an entire hour. When the rain started, he laid a protective paper napkin over the hill. Cuteness notwithstanding, I need him to grow up fast. Even at three days a week, childcare is bleeding me dry.

“Mommy, how fast can a bus go?” His questions are endless.

“One hundred miles an hour,” I reply dismissively, hoping for no further questions.

I pull on my rubber gloves and begin to wash last night’s dishes. No dishwasher. Dan promised me a dishwasher. He promised me a lot of things I never got: new curtains, unending devotion, child support. I’d already missed several mortgage payments in the year since he left. Last I heard, he was learning to scuba dive in Aruba while I learn about debt collection by third-party agencies.

“One hundred miles an hour horsepower,” Justin muses to himself.

I stop scratching at the charred tidbit burned to the rim of the pan.

“Where did you learn the word horsepower?” It’s my turn to be curious.

“From my book about horses. Mimi read it to me.”

I calculate. That’s a big word to remember and Mimi hadn’t visited from Florida in six months.

“Vroooom!” Encased in chubby fingers, the bus merrily rolls along the edge of the countertop. It vanishes over the edge in a noisy, fiery crash, as do most of his Matchbox cars (and buses), only to reappear moments later, rolling along a new surface.

He wanders away, leaving a trail of engine noises.

Why hadn’t I soaked these dishes? Ground beef casseroles are the meals of choice, cheap with easy leftovers for days in exchange for a mess. I submerge the pan and move on to glassware. What I wouldn’t give for a meal prepared, served and cleaned up by someone else. In order to make that happen, I need to be more assertive with the temp agency. I need more hours. I need to build my resumé. I need to put these placemats in the washing machine.

“Justin, are you getting dressed?” I shout over my shoulder, as I wring the dishcloth and peel off the gloves. “I’m leaving for work soon, and I’m dropping you off at Miranda’s.”

I reach for his lunch box and open the fridge. No groceries. I meant to shop last night, but time slipped away, and Justin fell asleep early. Peanut butter on graham crackers will have to do. Again. I’m sure Miranda thinks I’m the worst mother ever. But that’s out of my hands now. I close the fridge and open the pantry. If I don’t get moving, I’ll be late. I pull the generic jar off the shelf. It’s suspiciously lightweight. Didn’t I just buy this?

The phone rings. “Hello?”

The temp agency. My services aren’t needed today. The client hired someone permanently. Not me, but someone. No new assignments are likely until next week. This means zero dollars earned this week. I’m still holding the peanut butter jar. I rest it on the countertop.

I close my eyes. Bile-soaked disappointment rises from my defeated core. Now I have time for grocery shopping, but no money to spend. The irony. My heartbeat pulses in my neck. There is nothing of value left to sell except the house. Maybe it’s time for legal advice. Financial advice. Any advice. And charity.

I return to the sink and snap the gloves back on. The rain on the window glass blurs my view of the yard. Carefree, the raindrops each sparkle and quiver, joining together happily to form communal rivulets and slide out of view. I watch them morph, eyes welling.

Just focus on today. Just breathe. There you go. Good girl. Just get through the day. Exhale. My lips form a kiss of escaping air. It will get better. My neck still pulses. Deep breath. Do not move. Do not cry. Exhale.

I should call a realtor. Breathe. I should call my mother. Exhale.

“Mommy, why do people horse whisper?”

“What?”

Breathe.

“Horses.”

Exhale.

“What about them?”

“Why do people whisper to them?”

I pivot from the window. Justin is standing in the kitchen. Instead of a toy bus, he has his horse book in hand. He is probably going to want a horse for Christmas. Oh God, Christmas.

Breathe.

“Because sometimes a horse needs extra love,” I offer, exhaling.

I turn back to the sink. I fish through the soapy water for the scrubby pad.

He moves to my hip and gently tugs my shirt.

“Hey, Mommy.”

The words come in a breathy whisper.

“Will you read my horse book to me?”

I look down at his clear, flawless face. I blink. He blinks.

“Yes.” I squat and look into his wide eyes. “Yes, baby.”

I sit on the floor with my back against the cabinetry. He climbs into my lap with the book. I reach around him, and he helps me remove my wet rubber gloves. I clamp him in an embrace and nuzzle his neck. Mine is no longer throbbing. He reaches up and pats my ear, his free hand fumbling for page 1.