I’m at Barnes & Noble for some rare me time. I just left the kids at home with Dad and even as I ducked out the back door so they wouldn’t freak out at my departure, I heard their common cries of frustration with life not going their way, and I felt guilty.

I stopped at a shop I never get to go to because breakables are all they stock, and I felt guilty. And here I am at the book store coffee shop and I feel guilty—for leaving the kids… with their Dad who, though he does his best, is never quite enough Mom to please anyone; for shopping without AJ, my older daughter who loves to shop; and for enjoying this chocolate cheesecake and decaf mocha heavy on the whip—it’s that kind of day.

Then, wishing I hadn’t, I overheard a college-age boy at the next table tell his ailing grandmother, “See, now I never get to have nice stuff like that woman’s cake.”

I deliberately missed the rest of the conversation, but a few minutes later she was pushing money at him as though him enjoying a piece of cake could send her Home complete, and I felt guilty. I remembered the times I manipulated my family to get the meaningless things I wanted. I felt bad that he couldn’t get a piece of cake on his own at his age.

But you know what? This cake is delicious, and hard as my husband works physically, laying brick in the thousands and stones the size of my first car, I work equally hard mentally. Keeping up with customers, inventory, three kids home for the summer but not without activities, and managing to get dinner on once a week at best, I’m pooped, and I want to have my cake and you know what else. Screw guilt, if just for today.