My name is Laura. I’m a 39-year-old, single mother employed full-time as a nurse at the local hospital’s trauma unit. Most of my long 12 to 14-hour shifts start before sunrise and end long after it gets dark.

I’ve grown accustomed to the constant motion, the rotating schedules, the emotional weight of the job.

What I never quite got used to was coming home exhausted only to find our driveway buried in snow — again.

I live with my 12-year-old son, Evan, in a quiet suburban neighborhood about 20 minutes from downtown. It’s just the two of us.

His dad hasn’t been in the picture for years, and while that used to scare me, I’ve grown into the role of being both his mother and his only real parent.

If anything, he leans into it more than most kids his age. He insists on helping around the house and has his little routines. During the winter, that routine includes grabbing a shovel after school and clearing our driveway.

He does that so I can pull in when I get home late without having to climb over a snowbank in scrubs and soaked sneakers.

Evan says it makes him feel useful. I tell him he’s a superhero.