Back then, the old position had me bouncing between locations. Personal security in Detroit, site inspections up north, sometimes gone for three or four nights in a row. It was good money, but it came at a cost I wasn’t willing to keep paying.
So, I transferred. Took a pay cut, learned to stretch the budget tighter. Anything to be here when Harper woke up and when she fell asleep.
I was plating dinner, chicken and rice, because it’s one of my go-to weeknight meals, when my phone buzzed on the counter. The caller ID flashing:Porter from Security Ops.
My supervisor, who rarely calls outside work hours.
“Hello, Sir,” I answer, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear.
“Evening,” Porter says, his voice brisk. “Got a situation. The in-field supervisor took a bad fall, resulting in a compound fracture. He’s out. We need someone to cover for a couple of weeks, starting Monday.”
My stomach tightens, and I take a silent breath, trying to soothe the rising unease. “Porter, I haven’t done field rotations in over a year.”
“I know,” he says. “But you’ve got clearance, experience, and trust from the client. It’s temporary. Three weeks, tops.”
“I work remote for a reason,” I remind him, already hearing the edge in my voice. “I can’t leave town. My daughter—”
“I get it, man, I do,” Porter cuts in, but there’s no room in his tone for negotiation. “You’re good at what you do, but if we can’t fill this gap, the client might pull the contract. We all lose hours.”
“Porter—”
“Talk it over, but I need an answer by tomorrow. I’ll be straight with you, Logan—if you pass, I can’t guarantee your slot stays full-time. You know how corporate has been.”
The line goes still.
Harper’s humming drifts in the background as she draws at the table, blissfully unaware. Each note she sings feels like a thread anchoring me to this moment, stretching the silence until it becomes almost tangible.
“Yeah,” I say finally, voice low. “I hear you.”
“Appreciate it,” he says. “You’re one of the good ones.”
The call ends.
I set the phone down and exhale, the weight of it pressing against my chest.
Three weeks.
On paper, three weeks doesn’t sound like much. But for us, it means losing our routine: 21 bedtime stories, 42 morning waffles, and countless moments that ground our days.
And then I remember my old babysitter, Miss Jade.
She’d been our safety net, our soft place to land. She was a retired teacher who lived two doors down. She’d watched Harper since she was two. From school pickups to bedtime stories to snacks that always involved chocolate chips. She’d moved to North Carolina last month to help her daughter with her newborn.
We’d sent her off with flowers and a promise to visit. Harper cried the whole car ride home.
Now, I don’t even have anyone I can call. Not family. Not neighbors I trust enough to stay overnight, let alone for weeks.
I run a hand through my hair, staring at Harper, who’s now carefully coloring a picture of a cat wearing a tiara.
“What’s wrong, Daddy?”
I blink. “Nothin’, bug. Just thinking about work.”
She tilts her head, all suspicion and sweetness. “The serious kind of thinking?”
“Yeah,” I admit.
She drops her crayon, frowning. “You have that upside-down face.”
