Chapter 1 - Must Be Nice
"So do you just not work?"
The question came while Nate Mercer was tying his daughter's shoelace in the Rockwell Elementary pickup line, with thirty parents close enough to hear it.
Meredith Vale leaned against her spotless SUV. Two women stood beside her holding iced coffees and the kind of smiles people wore when they hoped somebody else would say the mean part first.
"I work," Nate said. "Just not for a paycheck right now."
"Oh." Meredith's smile widened. "Must be nice. My husband would go crazy sitting home all day."
Josie's fingers stopped twisting the strap of her purple backpack.
Nate finished the knot, pulled once to make sure it held, and stood. "I don't sit much."
"I'm sure." Meredith glanced at his faded sweatshirt. "We were trying to find a few parents who could handle the fall reading-night setup. You'd think someone with your schedule could help."
"Send me the details."
"We need somebody dependable. It's not really a drop-in thing."
Nate looked at her. She was already turning back to the other moms.
On the drive home, Josie watched a yellow school bus lumber through a light. Usually she narrated everything in the car: a dog wearing a sweater, a classmate's new haircut, the wrong lyrics she thought she'd heard at music.
That afternoon, she said nothing until they reached their street.
"Dad?"
"Yeah, bug?"
"Unemployed means nobody wants you to work, right?"
Nate gripped the steering wheel a little harder. "Not always. Sometimes it means you stopped doing a job."
"Did nobody want you?"
The light changed. A car honked behind him.
"I wanted to be with you," he said, pulling forward. "That was the whole point."
"But you didn't answer."
At home he unpacked lunch containers, scraped an untouched apple slice into the compost, and set her spelling sheet by the toaster. She followed him from room to room.
"Were you bad at your other job?"
"No."
"Then why'd you leave?"
He could have told her about the $180,000 salary, the hotel rooms, the eight-state distribution network, or the Thursday he missed her kindergarten play because two trucks broke down in Indianapolis. Instead he said, "I was tired of missing things."
"I'm things?"
"You're the best thing."
She considered that. "You can tell that lady."
"I shouldn't have to."
Josie looked away, and Nate heard how angry that sounded.
That evening a message appeared in the class-parent chat: FALL READING NIGHT COMMITTEE — CONFIRMED VOLUNTEERS ONLY.
Below it was a list of ten names. Nine mothers and one grandfather.
Nate's name wasn't there.
May you like
Josie was reading over his shoulder when she asked, "Are they not letting you come to my school?"
