Keyboards went still. Conversations died. I parked the bed in front of my boss’s glass office. He stood, stunned, and opened the door. I met his eyes and said, “You said I need to separate work from my private life. So I brought both to the same place. Let’s work.”

I set my laptop on a side table and started typing with my left hand, my right resting on my boy’s arm. No one else got much done. Twenty minutes later, Mr. Manson asked, “Can we speak in my office?” Inside, he said, “Listen, I didn’t— I didn’t expect you’d do this. I mean, your son…” I answered, “He’s critical,” and explained the next 72 hours would decide everything. I wasn’t choosing