“Yitzi. I’m praying it’s not an ear infection. I gave him drops last night, and he’s doing much better.”

Chanita passes me the coffee pitcher. I pour myself a steaming cup just as Mr. Stern strides in.

“Good morning, team, glad you’re enjoying the breakfast refreshments. Thank you, Mrs. Gross, for arranging.”

We all clap for Chanita and look at Mr. Stern expectantly.

“We’re here to discuss office efficiency.”

I nudge Riki. “Efficiency” is the Big Boss’s favorite word.

I tune out the rest of his motivational speech and manage to keep myself awake by counting the sprinkles left on the platter. I only snap back into it when I hear my boss say, “…tardiness, therefore, will no longer be acceptable. I understand you all have busy lives, busy mornings, but I cannot run an efficient company if my employees are meandering in during all hours of the day. I also need my employees to be present. Here. In the office. This isn’t 2020, people. We’re not running things remotely.”

Why am I feeling personally attacked?

I steal a glance around the room; okay, everyone looks equally grumpy. At least that.

Wow, misery really does love company. Who knew?

All is well until I get back to my desk and discover that Mr. Stern has emailed a select few a friendly “reminder” of bullet points of the meeting. Did he forget to bcc us, or did he put our names in the “To” row on purpose? Either way, he’s stressed the ones about not being late or absent.

I grumble about it to Shmuel that night, and we come up with a new plan for the mornings so that I can make it to the office on time. The thing is that Shmuel also has a job he needs to get to on time. The morning flexibility has always been a major perk of my job.

It works for a week. Yitzi takes his drops every night with minimal fuss, Shmuel goes to an earlier minyan, and I crash into work every morning at 9:01 a.m., layering mascara on my way out of the car.

Then, I get an email reminder from Chanita about my performance review and raise meeting with Mr. Stern.

Let me tell you about my job. I work in the inventory management department for Mr. Stern’s Amazon store. It’s as exciting as it sounds. I sit at my desk making sure the inventory is tracked properly. I’ve been working here for seven years, through the birth of three kids, and I’ve watched the business grow from selling play mats and baby toys to all kinds of baby gear. Still, I’ll say it straight. I kind of hate it. The actual work is tedious. But I love the office. We’re a team of women, we’ve made great friends, we’re there for each other through thick and thin.

I’m not actually concerned about my performance review: Efficiency is Mr. Stern’s favorite word, and we’ve had runs like this, but the office generally reverts to its more laid-back atmosphere. I’ve been late to work, but I also get my work done. Mr. Stern knows that. He knows I deserve a raise. I’m the one who discovered the discrepancy when we listed the pink booster seats as blue and almost lost our account. Still, I have a feeling these are not the right weather conditions for such a meeting. What can I do?

I’m right as usual, which doesn’t perk up my mood as much as it usually does.

“We appreciate your dedication, Mrs. Nussbaum. I’m so sorry, but we’re not granting raises at the moment. Let’s schedule to meet again in three months, and we’ll see how things are going with our improved efficiency initiative.”

In other words, I have three months to prove that I can be at work on time, or I can kiss my desperately needed raise goodbye. Nothing has changed recently except that I’ve grown more bored with my work than usual.

Oh, and that Mr. Stern has completely ruined the office vibe. The whole place is furious. Like, shouldn’t raises be based on past performance, not future? But it’s not that. It’s that any time we begin to do one of the things that actually makes our office pleasant — schmooze in the kitchen, funny Post-its on the copy machine, office-wide memes — he pops up, like some sort of angry jack-in-the-box, to tell us off. It’s quite charming and also makes me want to become a fitness instructor.

Baruch Hashem, we manage to go through the next two weeks with nobody staying home sick. Shmuel heads off to his job, I get to the office on time and stay later than required, dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s. The Nussbaums are in tip-top shape. So much so, that when the Shapiro clan begins planning the winter shabbaton — yes, we’re adorable — I offer to host it. This may seem shortsighted, but the truth is I love hosting parties, and work has been such a complete bore lately. Mr. Stern has really deflated the entire experience.

When I tell Shmuel that I want to host, he thinks I’m a few flowers short of a full bouquet.

“Host everyone? Like all of them? All five Shapiro siblings and their children? Here? In a week?”

I can’t help being mildly insulted that he’s so shocked.

“Um, yes? Obviously not everyone can sleep here, but we have the basement for Ma and Ta and Chili, Margareten’s basement, that can hold two families, and then I’ll ask Weinbaum if we can use their guest room.”

Shmuel still looks bewildered but hey, he won’t be the one cooking, cleaning, or following the 1,000 email threads on the Shapiro shabbaton chat.

Thread one is food. Penina wants to make it high-end and fancy, Leah wants it to be heimish and plentiful, Ma wants it catered so we all don’t have to work so hard.

Oh boy. Send help.

My penchant for spreadsheets actually assists us here; we organize, divide, and conquer. And of course, somehow, I end up with plastic ware.

I’m in Seasons, buying out the paper goods section, when Shmuel calls. “Um, I think Atara is sick.”

I freeze. “Wait, why?”

“Because she just threw up.”

Oh, that’s not good. That’s very not good. I throw things into my cart, and only realize when I get home that I bought big plates with a silver rim but soup bowls with a gold rim. Oh, well.

Atara is fine, thank You, Hashem, it was just a case of eating an entire can of pickles — but why? — and everything is all cleaned up, crisis averted.

Because aside from the shabbaton taking place in three days, Mr. Stern has really been cracking down on latecomers and absentee employees.

I heard Riki crying in the bathroom after he exploded at her. Granted, she was late, and she hadn’t finished the report he needed for a meeting, but still. I almost gave him a piece of my mind but then I remembered that I need to pay the bills.

It’s Wednesday night, and I’m sautéing onions by the pound for Shabbos prep. We compromised and planned out trendy appetizers, heimish mains, and catered desserts. Plus cakes and cookies galore.

I’m on the phone with Leah, eldest and very officially in charge of the brood, complaining about Mr. Stern, when Penina, youngest and yet also somehow in charge, clicks in.

“Do you have a pack ’n play?”

We do. But then I remember that we lent it out to a neighbor. Did they ever return it? “Shmu!” I call out. “Do we still have the pack ’n play in the garage?”

Shmuel pokes his head in. “Yeah, but it’s dusty. For who?”

“Penina.”

Shmuel loves Penina’s husband, Moshe. “Tell Moshe I’m not cleaning it for him, he can come do it himself.”

I roll my eyes. Guys are weird. “Sure, I’ll tell him.”

“Got the pack ’n play. Dusty though.”

Penina says she’ll call me back, and I get back on with Leah.

“Your boss sounds like he’s under pressure from someone else, honestly.”

Hmmm. She might have a point there. I overheard Chanita telling Shana about a huge item Mr. Stern had wanted to start selling, but he wasn’t sure he had the manpower in the office to make it happen.

“Well, maybe, but he can still act like a mensch.”

“Is he not acting like a mensch?”

I think about this honestly. “He is,” I admit. “Just more uptight and nervous and rule oriented.”

Leah laughs. “Welcome to the real world, where offices just aren’t that fun.”

I want to be insulted that Leah thinks I have no office experience when I’ve been working for Stern for seven years, but Penina clicks in again.

“Moshe agreed to clean the pack ’n play. Good thing I called him while he was out,” she says, giggling. “But he better be back soon. Nachi really needs that children’s Advil.”

That gets my attention. “Children’s Advil?”

“Yeah, Nachi hasn’t been feeling well all day, and I think his temperature is starting to rise.”

Oh boy. Oh boy oh boy.

No germs! Please, no. My kids get sick if someone with fever looks at them. And I cannot miss work. I just can’t. I won’t get my raise, and at the rate things are going I might not even have a job.

I quickly click back to Leah.

“Oh, gee, Chevs, I seriously have no idea what to tell you. You’re right, you cannot afford to have your kids get sick right now, now with work so uptight. But, maybe just wait to see how Nachi’s doing in the morning?”

Good idea.

I’m sure he’ll be fine in the morning.

Nachi’s worse. The doctor tells her it’s viral and it will pass.

See, now I see the flaw in Leah’s logic. If I had told Penina yesterday, I wouldn’t be the terrible person who asks her not to join a family Shabbos on Thursday morning.

Why.

Why am I in this position? It’s not fair! Why do my kids get sick so easily and so often? Why is my boss an efficiency driven robot-man? Don’t ask, that’s the insult that popped into my head. And why does Penina think it would be okay to stuff Nachi full of medicine and bring him to a shabbaton with older people (don’t tell my parents I’m saying this) and small children?

Shmuel tells me to really think this through. I almost make a snide comment about him just wanting Moshe to be there for Shabbos. But I don’t. I do what he advises. I really think about it. I think about how my kids get sick if someone even mentions the word “virus” near them. I think about work and how pressurized it’s become, and how we were really counting on my raise.

And I realize I really cannot, in good conscience, allow Penina to bring a sick Nachi into my home.

So obviously, I call Leah again.

“I wish I knew what to say,” she says uncomfortably.

Oh, that’s helpful.

“Yeah, me, too,” I say.

Me, too.

I tell her I’m calling Penina on my way to work. I think she’s very glad she’s not me right then.

Here goes nothing.

Penina hung up on me. She actually hung up on me. She muttered something unintelligible and hung up. It’s two hours later, and when I message Shmuel, he tells me Moshe is avoiding his calls as well.

So that’s great.

But what else could I have done? Put my job in jeopardy so that Penina can be a part of things?

Contribute to this column as a Second Guesser! Email your response, including your name as you want it to appear, to familyfirst@mishpacha.com with Second Guessing in the subject.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 930)