“Hand it over, now!”

“No!” Cries my desperate 4 year old, my phone clasped in her tiny vice-like grip.

The loud buzzing sends panic through my veins, urging me to reach across the table and yank the phone to my ear.

“Tim, hi! How can I help?” I chirp cheerfully, ignoring that it’s Saturday morning and he’s calling on my personal phone. “Of course, no problem! I’ll send it over now. Anything el…” the sound of the dead dial tone cuts me short, and I turn to see a small head of curls quietly watching the table.

“That wasn’t good,” I admonish, “what have I said about taking mummy’s phone?” She shrinks further into herself, cowering from my glare.

Instead of coaxing a response, I head for my laptop, still on the couch from last night’s late cramming. Immediately, I’m assaulted by the sound of a thousand small bells rising in urgency, hundreds of new demands for answers, comments and time flooding my inbox.

“You promised…” I hear a small voice from the dining table. I don’t look up, too focused on attaching the files I already sent him twice last week.

“This is work. I have to work, you know that.” I reread my note for tone and clarity (making sure I strike the right balance of smart but not too smart, confident but humble, assured but eager to please) and once satisfied, fire off the email.

When I look up she’s gone.

The drawing she wanted to show me lays abandoned among a field of crayons. It’s her and me, triangle dresses and spaghetti hair, holding hands against a bright yellow sun.

I follow the scent of maternal guilt down the hallway, where her bedroom door rests ajar. Inside, she sits cross-legged in front of her notebook, its back propped up against her teddy, a rudimentary Zoom call drawn out across the lined pages. She traces her tiny finger across the brightly coloured keys, all different shapes and sizes, hand crafted by her pens, scissors and glue.

The world is silent and heavy, as I take in the cost of our security. And wonder whether it will ever be worth it.