Time was up. Her pink slip might read, We regret to inform you that your position has been terminated. Should you wish to continue on a freelance basis… One would argue that you never stop being a mother, but she knew her full-time post had expired.
Her seat in the bleachers felt more like an unemployment line. No one left to manage. Would it feel like retirement with spontaneous vacations, and sleeping in? Cooking for two instead of three. But that initial thrill, like that affair she had years ago, would wear as thin as the billowing robes marching before her.
