When Dante turned six months old, I had no choice but to go back to work. The only job I could get with such a long gap in employment and no degree was cleaning an office building downtown. The shift was brutal: from 6:00 in the evening to midnight. I left Dante with a neighbor, a sweet but elderly woman who charged me a low rate to watch him. It wasn’t ideal, but it was all I could afford.
My routine was grueling, a relentless cycle of exhaustion. I woke up at 5:00 in the morning with Dante, bathed him, did the specialized exercises at home that the therapist at the community health center taught me, played with him, and simulated his senses. At 3:00 in the afternoon, I would try to sleep for a bit while he took his nap. At 5:30, I dropped him off at the neighbors and went to work, scrubbing toilets and mopping floors that rich people walked on. I came back at 12:30 at night, picked him up asleep, and arrived home dead on my feet. But I always, always gave him a kiss on his forehead before I dared to sleep.
On weekends, I did extra cleaning in other people’s houses to make ends meet. Dante went with me, sleeping in his stroller while I scrubbed floors, ironed clothes, and dusted furniture. Some of the women I worked for complained about me bringing him. They said it was “unprofessional” to bring special needs children to a job site. I swallowed my tears, apologized, and kept cleaning because I desperately needed that money.
But you know what was the most incredible thing of all? Despite all the struggles, despite the poverty, despite developing slower than other babies, Dante was a genuinely happy child. He was always smiling. When I arrived at midnight to pick him up from the neighbor, his little face would light up the dark room. He would stretch out his tiny arms to me with that big, toothless smile that absolutely melted my heart and made me forget my aching back.
