In late July, my husband, David, woke up too sick to stand. Our six-year-old, Luke, still needed to get to his sitter’s, so I grabbed my keys, buckled him into the back seat, and headed along the familiar route just outside Boston. It had been our summer rhythm for three years: David dropped Luke at Eliza’s on his way into the city; I worked remotely without interruption. Eliza was the perfect twenty-two-year-old college sitter—creative, patient, the kind of person who turned bug hunts into science lessons. Luke always came home sun-flushed and happy. When I parked at the neat little...
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