My daughter’s body is curled on my chest, hot with fever. She is 18 months old, just discovering the joy of running everywhere, but this week her little legs lay still. She opens her eyes some, vaguely aware that Dory is getting lost for the 18th time on the blue of the television screen. The dishes stay in the sink, the laundry goes unfolded, and someone else carries out my lesson plans at work. My most important job needs doing, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.