Hello, reader! Thank you for reaching till here, and for reading this. But before that, I hope you’ve had a good day so far?
And this is how the conversation ran:
The little girl grows up with her doll-house, role-playing a mother as she sees them to be, dressing up and plating hairs of her doll children, making them breakfast in her plastic kitchen and putting them off to sleep right next to herself. Cut to twenty-five years later: She is that one of the two parents who, always, worries more for her kids than the other one, and always knows what they love to eat. She calls on home in between her office meetings, to check upon if her baby has had its food and gone to sleep. She coos to them over the phone, lulling them into stopping to cry. She can never say yes when her job needs her to travel. Instead, she takes the day off when the baby is unwell, always. Her colleagues snide! Her manager, eternally unhappy; worst, her mind guilty to its brim. Always. Always. She rushes back home after the clock strikes its time, never putting up her hand for that extra mile project, giving away her promotion to what you call priority changes.