face with my hands, to allow my eyes and mouth to contort and submit into a mute sob. Instead, Todd and I glanced at each other, and I gave him a slight smile. I had to be okay. I had no choice.
Todd pulled off the freeway, down a few streets, and parked behind a two-door Honda Accord. It reminded me of the cars that boys drove in high school, a life-sized version of the toy race cars my little brother had played with. He checked the fluids, turning signals, brakes, and headlights with a knowledgeable efficiency that I found attractive. Todd did have a lot of qualities I admired—he worked construction while building his own cabin on a wooded property near Port Townsend—I wasn’t sure why my heart wasn’t there.
“I was about to sell it, so you can use it as long as you need,” he said and then handed me a key.
“Thank you,” I managed to get out, and hugged him. I hoped he knew how much he’d saved me from total despair and possible homelessness. But then, how could he? I hadn’t told him how desperate my situation was. I’d wanted to appear somewhat as an equal to him, rather than, I don’t know, who I was. Dating anyone felt like a joke in that way.
When I pulled out of the parking spot, my hands shook. My body felt jumpy, as though I’d had ten cups of coffee. I shouldn’t be driving, I thought. I’m not ready. I thought for sure I’d get us in an accident again, yet I was the only one who could get us to where we needed to go.
At a stoplight, knowing the freeway entrance was coming up, I wished there was someone I could call to help or even talk to. But I couldn’t think of anyone who’d be able to understand what I was going through, unless they knew what it was like to be a single mom, the lone parent obligated to make ends meet like I did.
When I talked to friends about my life, giving them even just a little peek into the window of the logistics, the stress, the constant juggling, I would hear the same thing again and again: “I don’t know how you do it.” When their husbands went out of town, or they worked late all the time, they’d say, “I don’t know how you do it,” shaking their heads, and I always tried not to react. I wanted to tell them those hours without your husband aren’t even close to replicating what it was like to be a single parent, but I let them believe it did. Arguing with them would reveal too much about myself, and I was never out to get anyone’s sympathy. Besides, they couldn’t know unless they felt the weight of poverty themselves. The desperation of pushing through because it was the only option. They couldn’t know how it felt to be me, the morning after the accident, about to drive a car down the same road where there was still glass from my car’s shattered windows, going on with my life like everything was normal, because that was the only choice I had.
Though I’m sure my clients would have understood, the electric company wouldn’t. I wanted nothing but to sit on the couch with my sick kid and refill her sippy cup of juice while we watched her Curious George DVD three times in a row. But I had to get back to work. And I had to drive. I wasn’t sure which seemed more impossible.
It was never a matter of “how” I did things. I’m sure any parent would do the same. Single parenting isn’t just being the only one to take care of your kid. It’s not about being able to “tap out” for a break or tag team bath- and bedtime; those were the least of the difficulties I faced. I had a crushing amount of responsibility. I took out the trash. I brought in the groceries I had gone to the store to select and buy. I cooked. I cleaned. I changed out the toilet paper. I made the bed. I dusted. I checked the oil in the car. I drove Mia to the doctor, to her dad’s house. I drove her to ballet class if I could find one that offered scholarships and then drove her back home again. I watched every twirl, every jump, and every trip down the slide. It was me