Every licensed center in our county charged more than twelve hundred dollars a month per infant, with waiting lists that ran well into the next calendar year.

By noon my head was throbbing with a brutal migraine, and I was sitting on the living room rug surrounded by piles of tiny baby onesies when my cell phone rang.

The caller ID showed the name of my oldest childhood friend, Beth, who lived only four streets over in our quiet suburban neighborhood.

“Claire, you sound like you’re standing at the edge of a cliff,” Beth said the second I picked up.

“I think I might really be standing at the edge of a cliff, Beth,” I admitted, letting out a ragged sigh as I folded a tiny yellow sleeper.