Between Two Worlds: When Work and Family Pull You Apart

“Mom, please. I don’t have anyone else to watch Mason tomorrow.”

I’m standing in the middle of my tiny kitchen, the phone pressed so tightly to my ear that my hand’s going numb. I can hear Mason giggling in the living room, his little cars clattering across the hardwood floor. My mother’s voice comes through the line, cold and clipped.

“Emily, I told you. I can’t keep dropping everything for you. I have my own life.”

My chest tightens. I bite down on my lower lip, holding back the tears. “Just this once, please. I have this presentation. If I miss it, I could lose my job.”

Silence. I picture her in her sunlit kitchen, sipping her coffee, scrolling through her tablet. She’s retired, busy with her bridge club and Pilates, and I can’t remember the last time she babysat Mason for more than an hour.

“I’m sorry, Emily. You’ll have to figure something out.” She hangs up.

I slam my phone down on the counter and cover my face. Mason toddles in, holding up his favorite blue truck.

“Mommy, play?”

I want to say yes. I want to scoop him up, forget about work, and just be with him. But there are bills stacked on the table, my boss’s urgent emails on my phone, and the relentless pressure of being the sole provider since Mason’s dad left last year. I kneel down, forcing a smile.

“Give me five minutes, buddy. Just five.”

But when I look into his eyes, I see confusion. Maybe even disappointment. He’s only three, but I wonder what story he’s already telling himself about his mom.

That night, after Mason’s in bed, I sit at my desk with my laptop, trying to rehearse my presentation. My mind keeps wandering. I remember when I was little, how my mom was always there. She’d bake cookies for my class, cheer at my softball games, stay up late when I had nightmares. Now, she’s a different person. Or maybe I’m blind to what she really needed back then.

I call my friend Sarah, desperate. “Can you watch Mason tomorrow morning? Please. I’ll owe you.”

She hesitates. “I’m already late for work every day, Em. If I help, my boss will kill me.”

I hang up, feeling more alone than ever. I stare at my reflection in the dark window. My hair’s a mess. There are bags under my eyes. I barely recognize myself.

The next morning, I drop Mason at a neighbor’s—Mrs. Carter, seventy-eight, kind, but frail. I hate myself for it. I drive to work, my hands shaking, praying nothing goes wrong.

During my presentation, my phone buzzes. Panic claws at me. I ignore it. As soon as I finish, I run into the hall and listen to the voicemail.

“Emily, it’s Mrs. Carter. Mason’s running a fever. I… I’m not sure what to do.”

My heart drops. I rush out, making up an excuse to my boss, who scowls. At home, Mason is flushed and listless. I call my mom again, tears streaming down my face this time.

“Mom, I need you. Mason’s sick. I can’t do this by myself.”

She sighs, softer this time. “Emily, you’re stronger than you think. I raised you alone, remember?”

I want to scream. “That’s exactly why I need you! You know how hard it is.”

A pause. “Maybe it’s time you ask his father for help.”

I hang up. Mason whimpers, and I cradle him, feeling the heat of his fever seep into my soul. I call Mason’s dad, Mark. He picks up after the third ring. “Em? What’s wrong?”

I tell him. For the first time in months, he sounds worried. “I’ll come over. I’ll take him this weekend.”

After I hang up, I sit on the floor, Mason’s head in my lap, and sob. I feel like a failure—as a mother, as a daughter, as a person.

The days blur. Mark does come, and he’s better than I remembered. He brings Mason’s favorite books, reads to him, makes him laugh. I have a few hours alone, but instead of relief, I feel hollow.

That night, my mom calls. “How’s Mason?”

“Better. Mark helped.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “You know, I always hoped things would be easier for you.”

“Why won’t you help me?” I whisper. “Why can’t you be there, just for a little while?”

She sighs. “Because I did it alone for so long, Em. I was exhausted. I lost parts of myself I’m only now getting back. I love you and Mason, but I can’t go back to that life.”

I finally understand, in a way I never did before. Still, the ache doesn’t go away.

Weeks pass. I juggle work and Mason, patching together sitters, sometimes bringing him to the office, bracing myself for the stares. My boss calls me in for a meeting.

“Emily, you’re a smart woman. But your personal life is bleeding into your work. We need you focused.”

I nod, swallowing my pride. “I’m doing my best.”

He sighs. “We all are. Maybe you should consider part-time.”

I can’t afford that. But what choice do I have?

On the drive home, Mason sings softly in the backseat. I glance at him in the mirror. His smile is crooked, his eyes bright. Despite everything, he’s happy. Maybe I am doing something right.

One night, after I put Mason to bed, I sit down and write an email to HR, asking about part-time options. It feels like defeat. But then I think about Mason’s laughter, the way he wraps his arms around my neck, the way he says, “I love you, Mommy.”

Maybe this is what being a good mom looks like—sacrificing, compromising, showing up, even when it’s hard. Maybe it’s enough.

I look at myself in the mirror, really look this time. I’m tired, yes. But I’m still here. Still fighting.

Is it possible to be a good mother and a good daughter at the same time? Or is choosing myself—and my son—enough?

What would you do, if you were standing where I am now?