Mondays and Tuesdays are the only days I allow myself to indulge in my workaholic trait, but not to the extend of risking my pregnancy.
My assistant makes sure I eat my meals, and before she leaves the office on these two days, she'd always bring my dinner at 7pm sharp. Just so I won't forget to eat in case I'm too absorbed with work.
In short, I've gotten the hang of this, of my new routine.
Around 7.50 in the morning, my baby daddy would reach on the doorstep of our co-parenting apartment in a pair of jeans, hoodies, sometimes with a cap, to take care of Pao since I'd leave for work before 8. He'd go straight to his Princess, getting busy with anything, literally anything so he can avoid me.
Around 12.30 he'd text me a picture of Pao signalling he has picked her up from school. Then
