As I walked through the front door at 8pm for the fourth night in a row, desolate knowing that yet again I’d missed my daughter’s bedtime, I knew there was only one person I could speak to who could make me feel better: my mother.
She’d worked all through my childhood, after all. She’d understand. I wasn’t prepared for what she said to me. “Your boss won’t thank you for working all these extra hours, but it would mean the world to Ottilie for you to be there to kiss her goodnight.
Just think about what you’re missing out on.” I’d expected her to tell me that my daughter was fine and to stop making myself feel guilty but in fact she’d said the opposite.
I can’t tell you how much I regret all the time I missed out on with you when you were little because I so busy at work all the time. Don’t make the same mistakes as me.”
While she certainly didn’t suggest I quit my job and don a pinny, she did help me to think about my priorities. My life has changed: I can’t put in the same hours at the office …