She hated the mornings the most.
Her muscles ached from lifting the kids, from carrying the laundry basket up and down, up and down, from sitting on the floor for hours after school, playing, pretending.
All she wanted to do in the mornings was light a cigarette and get to work just like that, in her ragged t-shirt and shorts, her eyes still crusty from sleep.
But no. The children woke as soon as they heard her stir and were on top of her, their long limbs around her waist, hands in her hair, sticky, wet kisses on her mouth and cheek. She struggled to get out from under their wiggly weight, away from their giggles and sweet morning breath. She had things to do.