I was driving back from the city today—it’s a ninety-minute commute if the tractors aren’t out on Highway 42, which they ALWAYS are this time of year—and I was thinking about the Q4 strategy for the regional dairy co-op account, because apparently that’s what my brain does now, it just calculates ROI while I’m staring at cornfields. I spent ten years in Chicago doing high-level brand management, really grinding, and then we move back here to my husband’s "roots" because it’s better for the family, or whatever the brochure says, and now I’m the only woman in a fifteen-mile radius who wears a blazer to the post office. It’s weird how people look at you here, like you’re some kind of exotic bird that accidentally flew into a barn. Anyway, I was running late because the client wanted to talk about "organic reach" for a product that literally everyone in this county buys anyway, and by the time I pulled into Mrs. Gable’s gravel driveway, the sun was doing that flat, orange thing it does over the silos. I don't even know why I’m bothered by Mrs. Gable, she’s perfectly fine, she’s what you get when there are only two childcare options and the other one is a teenager who spends the whole day on TikTok. She smells like those peppermint patties and laundry starch, and her house always has that low hum of a TV playing game shows in the background. I walked in—didn't even knock because she says we're "kin" now, which is a whole other thing I don't have the energy to address—and there they were on the rug. Leo was sitting up, he’s getting so big, almost seven months now, and he had his little fists buried in the cable-knit of her sweater. It’s this beige, chunky thing that looks like it’s been washed a thousand times. I stood there in the doorway, still holding my laptop bag, feeling the air-conditioning hit the back of my neck, and I said his name. I said it LOUD, like I was trying to wake him up or something. He didn't even turn around at first. He just kept babbling at her, that wet, nonsensical sound babies make when they’re happy, and when he finally did look over his shoulder, it was like he was looking at a stranger who just interrupted a really good movie. I reached out my arms, the way you’re supposed to, expecting him to do the little lunging thing, but he just turned back and grabbed her thumb. He GRABBED her thumb and tucked his face into her side. Mrs. Gable gave me this look—it wasn't mean, it was worse, it was PITY—and she said, oh, he’s just tuckered out, we had a big day in the garden. Like they have this whole secret life while I’m sitting in boardrooms talking about "market penetration" and drinking stale coffee. I just stood there. I didn't feel like crying, which is the part that’s probably wrong with me. I just felt... empty? Like a vessel that’s been scrubbed out. I thought about how much I pay her, which is a lot for this town but nothing compared to what I’d pay in the city, and I wondered if I was just paying for someone to replace me. My mom used to say that children know their mothers by the scent of their skin, but I probably just smell like expensive perfume and the inside of an Audi. I took him from her, eventually, and he whimpered. He actually WHIMPERED when I lifted him away from her, like I was the one taking him away from home. We drove home in the dark and I didn't even turn on the radio. I just listened to him sucking on his pacifier in the back seat. I kept thinking about this one time in college when I went to a museum and saw this old, cracked painting of a Madonna and Child, and I remember thinking it looked so stiff and unrealistic, but now I realize maybe the artist just didn't know how to capture that feeling of being a GHOST in your own house. Everyone in town thinks I’m so successful, the "big city executive" who came home, but I’m just the woman who pays Mrs. Gable to be the person my son loves. It’s a transaction. Everything is a transaction. I get the paycheck, she gets the hugs, and Leo gets... I don't know what he gets. A mother who knows how to optimize a digital ad spend but can't get him to stop crying when she walks into the room. My husband was already home when we got back, fixing the sink or something because everything in this 1920s farmhouse is constantly breaking. He asked how my day was and I just said "fine" because how do you explain that your infant son prefers a woman who still uses a rotary phone? He wouldn't get it. He thinks I’m just "adjusting" to the transition back to work. I went into the kitchen and started making a bottle, and I caught myself looking at my hands and wondering if they felt too cold to him. Mrs. Gable has those big, warm, floury hands. Mine are just... efficient. I don't feel sad, really. I just feel like I’m watching a version of my life where I’m the supporting character, the one who shows up for the end credits while someone else does all the heavy lifting. I keep thinking about tomorrow morning. I have a 9 AM conference call with the regional directors and I have to be "on." I have to be the person who has all the answers. I’ll drop him off at 8:15 and he’ll probably reach for her before I even get the car door shut. I’ll see his little fingers catch on that scratchy wool sweater and I’ll just drive away. It’s funny, I spent my whole life trying to get out of this town, trying to be SOMETHING, and now that I’m back, I’m the most invisible I’ve ever been. I’m just the lady who lives in the old Miller place and works too much. That’s the "brand" I’ve built for myself, I guess. It’s not exactly what I had in mind when I was twenty-two and moving to Chicago with three suitcases and a lot of ambition. Sometimes I wonder if I should just quit, but then what? I’d be stuck in this house with the creaky floors and the silence, trying to win back a baby who already thinks I’m an interloper. And we need the money, or at least that’s what I tell myself so I don't have to face the fact that I actually LIKE the office. I like the spreadsheets. They make sense. They don't whimper when you pick them up. They don't prefer Mrs. Gable. I’m sitting here on the porch now, it’s almost 2 AM, and the crickets are so loud they sound like static. I should go to bed, but I’m just... I’m just waiting for something. I don't even know what. Maybe for the sun to come up so I can start the whole cycle over again and pretend I’m not losing a race I didn't even know I was running.