I knew this was going to happen. I just didn't think it would feel like a punch to the gut when it did. The whole office still smells like cheap coffee and desperation, even at six o'clock, but I’ve learned to filter it out. After three months of maternity leave, where the air was thick with formula and that particular baby-skin scent, fluorescent lighting feels… sharp. Like the edges of a newly forged knife. I’d spent all day trying to remember how to string together a coherent sentence for a pitch deck, feeling like my brain had been replaced with cotton wool, and all I could think about was getting home. Getting *her* home. The nanny, bless her heart, always has everything packed up. The diaper bag, the little blanket with the sheep that looks like it’s seen better days, the half-eaten banana squashed into a tiny plastic container. She’s a sweet woman, older, with kind eyes that crinkle at the corners, and she always greets me with a smile that’s too bright for my exhausted face. “She had a wonderful day,” she said, her voice a gentle murmur, holding my daughter on her hip. My daughter, who was gurgling, a little river of drool tracing a path down her chin, all bright eyes and chubby cheeks. She looked so happy. And that’s when it happened. I reached out, my arms already aching to hold her, to feel that weight against my chest, that tiny head tucked under my chin. My daughter looked at me, then back at the nanny. Her little hands, still soft as rose petals, reached out. Not for me. For the nanny. And the nanny, without missing a beat, scooped her a little closer, murmuring something about "Mama's here!" and then gently, almost imperceptibly, passed her over. But the damage was done. It was like watching a slow-motion replay of my own heart getting taken out and stepped on, only with a soundtrack of baby giggles instead of dramatic music. The worst part is, I wanted to laugh. This absurd, dark chuckle that would probably scare the baby. Because what else are you supposed to do when your own flesh and blood chooses someone else over you? Someone who isn’t paying off a mortgage, or trying to figure out if we can afford organic vegetables this week, or battling a marketing campaign that thinks "artisanal" still sells anything. Someone who gets to be the warm, unburdened presence, while I’m the woman who smells faintly of stale office air and last night’s regret. I held her close, burying my face in her soft hair, inhaling that sweet, milky smell, and it was a comfort, yes, but also a betrayal. I could feel the nanny's gaze, that same kind smile, and I wanted to scream, or maybe just cry into my daughter’s scalp until the feeling passed. My own mother, God rest her practical soul, would have said, "Well, what did you expect? Someone has to pay the bills." And she’d be right. She’s always right about the hard truths. But knowing a truth doesn't make it any less bitter to swallow. It felt like I was holding a precious, fragile thing that didn't quite belong to me anymore, not in the same way. Like she was a borrowed book, and the librarian was standing right there, waiting for me to return her. The drive home was a blur of traffic and the insistent, rhythmic squeak of a toy my daughter had found in her car seat, and all I could hear was the echo of those tiny hands reaching, reaching away from me. I put her down in her crib tonight, still feeling that hollow ache. She fell asleep almost immediately, a little sigh escaping her lips. I stood there, watching her chest rise and fall, the soft shadow of her eyelashes against her cheek, and I felt this surge of fierce, protective love. And then, right underneath it, this tiny, sharp splinter of resentment. Resentment for the nanny, for my job, for the cost of living that makes this whole thing necessary. Most of all, I think, for myself. For not being enough. For not being the first choice. I suppose I should be grateful. Grateful that she’s well cared for, that she’s happy. But gratitude feels like a thin blanket against this cold, hard truth. It's an anger that hums under my skin, like a low-frequency hum that only I can hear. An anger at the unfairness of it all. At having to choose between making a living and making a life. And right now, it feels like I’m failing at both.