I called out to the children to get in the car. Allie, 6 years old, took her time, dragging her backpack. Jordan, 4, whined to be carried. I had to pull Jax, 9 years old, who had stopped to write “bolaz” with his index finger on the dew-covered car. My grandchildren are my world. But at 62 years old, it’s hard to believe that I’m raising them alone. The youngest, Jordan, still has that premature baby paleness. He has big eyes and a mischievous smile; he loves cuddles and spits a lot. Out of the three grandchildren, he’s the one who talks the most about his missing mom. Maybe that’s where the spitting comes from; within that little body lies the rage of a two-humped beast. The night he realized that my daughter wasn’t coming to tuck him in, he started crying and didn’t stop. I hugged and kissed him, while the others drowned in their sadness. But not Jordan. He was furious and hurt. He was born breech and never wanted to be separated from his mother. His love for her was umbilical. I tried to convince him with promises, bribe him with candies, bark orders at him. We ended up both sobbing. I only intended to take care of them until my daughter and her husband could recover, but when they sunk into instability, the children came to live with me. That first night, I got up from the bed where the two older ones huddled like puppies and picked up the crying little one. Outside, in the damp night, I sat Jordan in the car seat, buckled him in, and drove into the darkness. Sometimes he would stop crying, but when I thought he had finally fallen asleep, he would start again. It took 20 minutes for me to realize that he was fighting sleep because he thought I was taking him to his mother. One morning, after loading the children into the car to go to school and daycare, I tried to open the door and realized they had locked me out. They had started my old Honda in the driveway because they wanted to get out of their warm beds and into their warm seats, and they repaid me by barricading themselves inside while I stood outside with my travel mug. I didn’t want to explode in anger where the neighbors could hear me. While they laughed, I tried not to cry. Eventually, they let me in and my smoldering sadness filled the car. It annoys me that I’m an old woman raising three young children. It annoys me to have to get up at 6 a.m. in the cold, unable to roll over and sleep for another hour, even on weekends. It annoys me when my grandchildren are rude and ungrateful. “ZsaZsa, we’re sorry,” Jax said. (I’ve forbidden them from calling me “grandma”). Allie started whimpering with remorse. Jordan peered out, hyper-vigilant, from his car seat. “ZsaZsa, are you happy with us?” When we arrived at daycare, I unbuckled Jordan from the car. Pretending to be happy, I encouraged him for the day ahead. He likes his class, but his only friend is Miss Amy. I handed him over in time for the morning circle, told him he would have a good day, and slipped away. When I returned to my car, I couldn’t help but glance at the enormous black SUV parked next to me, where a woman sat inclined at the wheel with a newborn baby in her arms. She herself looked like a baby, with her hair severely pulled back to reveal her fresh features and caramel-colored skin. She was wearing a military uniform. The image of sacrifice. This mother was spending the precious last moments of the morning holding her precious child, a camouflage Madonna in prayer. Was she about to be sent on a mission? I was hypnotized by this young mother sitting in the parking lot, unable to leave her child in someone else’s arms. I started looking for her every time I dropped off Jordan, wondering if she knew something. Perhaps her child had been born with a countdown: the soldier mother who knew how much time she had, and that’s why she sat so intensely every morning, holding, cradling, praying, humming. She always took the closest spot to the door, parking her massive car where others had to go around it. Everyone else greeted, shouted, took their children to daycare. Even the crying and sobbing children were taken inside. Another morning, I had a Zoom call at 9 a.m. and I wasn’t ready. I had dropped off the other two children, but when I arrived at daycare, there was a line of cars. Had the entire city overslept? When it was finally my turn, I parked next to the giant SUV. Yes, there she was, the soldier mother, doting on her treasure. Didn’t she realize we were in a hurry? If she was going to pray every morning, why didn’t she park to the side to make room for the rest of us who had other places to go? “Come on, Jordan,” I said, lifting him because I didn’t have time for him to dawdle. I rolled my eyes at the soldier mother. But of course, she didn’t see me. She only had eyes for her baby. After the switch to daylight saving time, the children started having trouble getting up. Just when I thought I had figured out the morning routine, the game had changed. I let Jax skip brushing his teeth and allowed Allie to wear her pajama top to school. Jordan went with the surprised face of a clown shot out of a cannon. I could barely function. My nerves were on edge when I saw the monstrous SUV again, the one that seemed to say, “What this car carries is more special than yours.” My blood boiled, but I tried to ignore it. Just to prove that I’m also a good mother, I let Jordan wear a pink face mask to school because pink is his favorite color. I prayed that the other children hadn’t learned to be cruel yet. I kissed him and gave him a pat on the back as he took Miss Amy’s hand. But it made my stomach churn. As I was leaving, I stopped by the administrative offices. I had to report the woman who parked her enormous car right at the entrance every morning, blocking access for the rest of us who needed to come and go. Shouldn’t they at least make her move and tell her to be more considerate of others? But there was no one in the office. When I got back to my car, the soldier mother was still sitting there, the car running, baby in her arms. The rest of the week, I stayed at the daycare after dropping off Jordan, reading the bulletin board and asking questions of the staff. It took me a while to realize that I was trying to meet her. I needed to hear the tone of her voice, evaluate her. But she had been trained to detect an enemy lurking. I left without meeting her. Recently, when I went to drop off the children, it was pouring rain and I cursed myself. The forecast called for intermittent showers, but I was in such a hurry that I forgot Jordan’s raincoat. “This is madness,” I said, a little worried about the lack of visibility, the loss of traction, the blurry white lines, the trucks bearing down on us. Please, God, I prayed, don’t let me have an accident with my sweet grandson in the car. “I love the rain,” Jordan said, looking at the drops hitting the window, “because I like rainbows.” When we arrived at daycare, I parked right in front of the door. I was nervous, the rain was still pouring. I couldn’t move. The downpour had unleashed my fears: What will happen if I become too old to take care of them? What if I abandon them again when I die? Jordan looked around, not knowing what was happening. “Can I take off my seatbelt?” he asked. I took a deep breath. “Yes, but we’re not getting out yet.” He sat in the front seat and I crad
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