Shrieks, laughter, occasional crying. Small armies of tiny people brimming with energy, kicking wood chips into the air in their wake, picnic-bound. Babysitters and ice cream. And, in the midst of it all, a single mother intently observing her only child at various modes of play.

Nowadays, not many young women—especially young women with staggering heartache, more than one job, many bills, and a needful little child to look after—were willing to make urgent excuses for time off in order to take their daughters to the playground. But perhaps that’s because not many young women appreciate that sufficient time spent at a playground nourishes a child’s future success more than materialistic abundance does. She needed to provide, and she knew that. But she had a hunch that, in some mysterious way, the bills would get paid, groceries bought, and errands run without her making them her top priority. All that mattered to her right now was that her daughter was scrambling up a ladder to a slide for a thirtieth time, and then running over to a seesaw to join another little girl who was waiting for a playmate with her mother, and then hurrying to grab her little pail and shovel from her mother before skipping off to a sandbox.

If she lost her job, if she couldn’t afford the month’s rent, if she had to borrow to make ends meet, she knew she would live. If she deprived her daughter of this precious time, she would be failing in her favorite role: Imagination Facilitator, Best Friend, Mother. Mom.

So, she sat back and smiled. She picked up her phone.

“Mommy!” Her daughter waved by the swing set, eagerly beckoning to her mother.

“I’m coming, sweetie!” she called back. Quickly, before as she got up, she dialed a number. Her call went to voicemail.

“Hi, Terry, this is Veronica. I just wanted to let you know that I will not be reporting to the office again tomorrow…”