I used to wake up before the sun, the sound of my son’s cries pulling me out of sleep like clockwork. His face red and scrunched, fists balled, he was my tiny, relentless alarm. I’d scoop him up with one arm, and with the other, open my laptop. Emails. Slack pings. Calendar reminders for meetings I hadn’t had time to prepare for. Somewhere in the kitchen, a forgotten cup of coffee sat cold on the counter.
