“Mrs. Brown stopped me today. Asked if I wanted to be a teacher’s aide at the school.”
“What’s a teacher’s aide?”
“It’s like a teacher’s assistant, kind of. Or they work with kids who need extra help.”
“Oh.” His forehead creases. “You’re so good with the girls. Would you want to do something like that?”
“No,” I say. “I love our kids, but no.” His belief that maybe I’d enjoy it leaves my drink bittersweet in my mouth—but it’s my own fault. It’s only because I’ve presented myself in a certain way that he’d even consider I’d enjoy a job like that.
We finish our drinks and make our way upstairs. We have our obligatory once-a-week sex, because he wants to, and because I read somewhere that having sex regularly improves your intimacy and trust with your partner by up to seventy-four percent, something I want very much. Also, sex with Brian doesn’t suck. Then we go to bed.
At least, he does. It takes about forty-five minutes for him to fall asleep on the nights I give him hydroxyzine in his nightcap, which is more or less as innocuous as Benadryl. Then, assured he won’t wake and wonder where I’ve disappeared to or overhear a call about how his wife is a professional killer, I slip from the sheets and walk across the hall to check on the girls. Their breathing is slow, steady. Eliza kicks her legs in her sleep. Evie has half of her fist in her mouth, and I smile, watching her an extra moment.With Brian in deep sleep, I’ll keep an eye on them via the monitor I have hooked up in my hidey-hole.
Then it’s into the other room, through the closet, behind the bookcase.
I call John again.
“Nadia! Sorry about the delay, I’ve been working my other job.”
I assume he’s lying but don’t say so. The background noises sound suspiciously likeSonic the Hedgehog.
“We need to talk.”
Silence stretches between us for a long moment.
“Yes, Nadia?” he finally asks. The Sega on his end goes blissfully silent.
“I spoke to Ian today.”
“Ian as in…?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” John’s tone is cautious, almost placating. He doesn’t work with Ian, but he of course has heard of him. Everyone in the business has.
“We spoke about work.”
“Mm-hmm.” He’s good at inserting encouraging noises at the right moment. I’m not sure if he means it to be soothing or to indicate that he’s merely paying attention, but it’s obnoxious, and I almost snap at him.
I force myself to breathe. I can’t believe I’m about to ask this question, and yet here I am.
“Have I been mommy-tracked?”
“What?” His voice comes out almost choked. “What the hell is…mommy-tracked?”
“You know I’m married, that I have kids. I took time off when they were born.”
He stays quiet. We don’t talk about our real lives often, and my children are not a topic of conversation. Period. The reality is that the agency of courseknowsabout them, but they’ve always respected my family’s privacy, their separation from my job. There are certain rules we live by, and that’s one of them—stay out of personal lives. It’s been that way since I first connected with them through John twelve years ago, when I learned just about anything could be found on the dark web. I’d gone there looking for paying jobs; instead, I came across a handler who’d search them out for me if I paid him a cut. Given that it allowed me a degree of separation, a layer of safety, I’d thought it was worth it. Even then I’d wanted to continue the charade of normalcy.
“Ian told me—” My voice is hard, coming out in a rush. I’m usually so in control, but this is one thing that makes me feeloutof control, and I hate that. My jaw aches as I grind my teeth and take another breath. “He told me he was offered this big job in Mexico, but that he asked why it wasn’t given tome. I’m already this far south.” I clench my hand around the phone, dig my nails into my palm until it causes pain. The hurt allows me to focus.
“No one approached me about a job in Mexico, Nadia.”
“Iknow. And that’s the problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Ian told me they didn’t want to offer me the job. Because I’m a woman. Or a mom. Or they think I won’t leave town to do it because I have kids. It wasn’t clearwhyexactly, but it boils down to the fact that I’ve hit the fucking glass ceiling.”
