When my ex and his wife welcomed their newborn, I figured things might get hectic—but I never expected the call I got from my daughter, Sari, last night.
She’s sixteen. She lives with them part-time.
Through tears, she whispered, “Mom… I have the night shift with the baby.”
I froze. “What do you mean ‘night shift’?”
She explained that her stepmom, Renna, had told her, “You can’t live with us for free; you need to earn your keep.”
I saw red.
Sari’s a teenager. She should be studying, laughing with her friends, worrying about finals—not being forced into unpaid overnight nanny duty just to keep a roof over her head. But storming over and shouting wouldn’t fix it. I needed a better plan.
The next morning, I loaded up my car with a box of donuts and drove to their house unannounced. Moms on a mission? We come armed with fake smiles and baked goods.
When Sari opened the door, her face lit up—then fell in panic. “Mom… no. Please don’t cause a scene.”
I smiled brightly and said, loud enough for the whole house to hear, “I’m just dropping off some breakfast, honey.”
Her dad—my ex, Colby—looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Renna barely glanced at me, cradling the baby like she was auditioning for a parenting magazine.
“Good morning!” I said cheerfully as I placed the donuts on the counter. “I heard there’s a new manager of the night shift around here.”
