The interview had been scheduled for Tuesday at ten in the morning, and there was no way I could bring a feverish child into a glass-walled conference room full of senior partners deciding whether I belonged among them. So I had called my mother. I should have known better.
“Mom,” I had said carefully, already bracing myself, “I got into the final round for partnership. It’s next Tuesday at ten. Leo still can’t go back to preschool, and David can’t take another day off.
I was hoping you and Dad could watch him for just a few hours. Three hours at most. He’ll probably sleep the whole time.”
There had been silence on the other end.
I could picture her standing in the kitchen I had paid to remodel, leaning against the white quartz countertop she liked to call her dream island. She was probably wearing one of her linen sets from the boutique near the country club, frowning as if I had interrupted something terribly important. “Tuesday?” she said at last.
“At ten?”
“Yes. That’s the only time they offered.”
Another pause. “Your father has golf.”
I closed my eyes.
“And I have book club,” she added. “I’m hosting this week. I already ordered the trays.”
“Mom, Leo is sick.
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