I’m Phoebe, 28, a single mom to a five-year-old girl named Hope, the kind of bright-eyed kid who finds joy in mismatched socks and makes up songs about bananas. Most days, she’s the anchor that keeps me grounded in a life that’s otherwise flying a million miles per hour.
It’s not glamorous. I work nights at the hospital as a nurse. Scrambled shifts, missed dinners, and falling asleep during cartoons are just part of the job description now. But last week?
That night flipped everything upside down.
It was a Wednesday, past 6 p.m., and I had just finished combing Hope’s curly hair into two neat puffs when my phone buzzed. It was an unknown number. I knew what that meant before I even picked up. It was a staffing emergency.
“Phoebe, we need you. Night shift. ER’s overwhelmed. Can you come in ASAP?” my supervisor said, barely pausing to breathe.
I glanced at Hope. “Let me figure something out. Give me 30 minutes.”
I called my mom, Darla, who usually watches Hope when I work nights. But that evening, she had just gotten out of a dental procedure and was woozy from anesthesia, definitely not in any shape to babysit.
My gut tightened.
I didn’t have a backup plan. Then I remembered Karen.
She’s my neighbor, in her mid-40s, lives alone, always chatty in the hallway, sometimes a bit too nosy, but generally kind. She had once offered to help if I ever needed anything with Hope. So I called her, trying to ignore the awkwardness in my voice.
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