Mickey learned of her father’s death from the obituary. She wasn’t listed among his loved ones, which didn’t surprise her. It didn’t offend her either. Wildly indifferent, she slapped the newspaper into a pile on her desk and shoved it aside and resolved to never think about the obituary, or her father, ever again.
She swiveled for a better view of the lone kindergartener squatting on the classroom carpet. “That’s a cool airplane.”
Ian did not look up from his Lego. “It’s a starfighter.”
“Oh. My mistake.”
In the forty-five minutes since school ended, Mickey had scoured the floor for every scrap of tissue paper, stub of crayon, and crust of Play-Doh. She’d scrubbed the tables clean of white glue and applesauce. She’d tucked away the cars, the trains, the glassy-eyed babies, the pink stethoscopes. All that remained was the Lego. And Ian.
Mickey let her gaze drift toward the bathroom for half a second.
It had been hours. “Does it go fast, your starfighter?”
Ian muttered under his breath and kicked off his shoes for no apparent reason, pouting in that despondent way of his, as if everything in the whole world insulted him.
Mickey suppressed a smile. This kid was quite possibly her favorite.
From the doorway came a clopping of boots and a jangling of keys. Mickey spun, searched the battle-worn face of Jean Donoghue, school principal, and found . . .
A frown. Damn.
“Hi, Ms. Morris,” Jean said, her voice as full of artificial sweetness as the can of Diet Coke she toted everywhere. “Hi, Ian.”
Ian shot her a glare and returned to his Lego. He was definitely Mickey’s favorite.
After traversing the classroom and perching on the edge of Mickey’s desk, Jean gave a tiny shrug that confirmed the worst: it was time to call the cops.
“No answer on her cell?” Mickey asked.
“I tried it four times.”
Mickey felt the cold trickle of disappointment. “Let’s give her ten more minutes? She deserves that much.” According to Ian’s file, his mom was twenty and his dad was nowhere.
Jean threw back the last of her pop and crunched the can in her fist. Foundation had caked in the crinkles around her hard gray eyes. “It’s school policy.”
Easy excuse. Yes, Ian’s mom should’ve been here at 3:50 with all the other moms. She should’ve greeted Ian outside the classroom with a hug and a kiss and a specially prepared snack of apple slices and peanut butter. But this situation wasn’t her fault. She was probably stuck working overtime at a waitressing job she hated but couldn’t quit because her landlord had raised the rent by thirty-five percent. And now Jean wanted to involve the cops?
Mickey thought of her own mother and the one-bedroom apartment they’d shared all those years. Empty fridge, lights that only sometimes turned on. All because her father—
No. She wouldn’t go there. She wouldn’t think of him, of the newspaper now neatly tidied away as if it were completely unremarkable—nothing more than fodder for papier-mâché projects.
Mickey took a deep breath, which did nothing for the blood thumping in her ears or the sudden tightness in her throat. “His mom’s having a tough time.”
“I’m having a tough time. I’ve got date number three with the accountant tonight.” Jean tossed her empty Diet Coke into the recycling bin beside Mickey’s desk, where it clattered to the bottom and fell silent. “Date number three. I need to leave.”
Mickey couldn’t believe this. Except that she totally could. Jean was nearing retirement and spent much of the workday watching TikTok videos of people cutting into ultra-realistic cakes. “Go ahead. I’ll stay.”
“I can’t let you do that.” “It’s no trou—”
“Are you sure?” Jean whipped off her lanyard and dropped it beside Mickey’s laptop. “Here are the keys. You’re a saint. Seriously. You were put on this earth to teach kindergarten.”
This was a fact. Mickey had the face of a kindergarten teacher, heart-shaped and plain, with a broad forehead and wide-set eyes that evoked a certain wholesomeness. She had a cheery singing voice. She had a toothy smile. She had the patience to stuff twenty-six pairs of hands into twenty-six pairs of mittens. Kindergarten was her calling, her destiny, the single reason she hadn’t yet expired in a ditch somewhere.
“I’m giving you a raise.” Jean let out a bark of laughter. “Except that I can’t. If I could, I would. You know that.”
The pay was insulting, and Mickey’s expenses were high. Speaking of which—“I might use the bathroom before you go.” “Of course, of course.”
Mickey snatched her purse off the desk and tipped her head at Jean knowingly. “That time of the month.” Which could easily have been true.
Jean raised a three-finger salute.
Mickey ran a few steps, walked a few steps. Ran, walked. Ran, walked. Snaked her way between rhomboid tables and little yellow chairs. Pushed her way through the bathroom door. Plopped down on the child-sized toilet and dug around in her purse. Wallet, sunglasses . . . packet of antiseptic wipes, extra Band-Aids . . . the Hillary Clinton biography she’d taken from a Little Free Library eight months ago and never opened . . .
Mickey scrunched the faux leather in her fists. Why did they make bags this big? Why? She’d filled it with crap out of obligation. Now the non-crap things—the things she wanted, the things she needed—were impossible to find.
Hillary Clinton hit the floor. Chargers and earbuds spilled out over Mickey’s knees. Bile stung her throat. Where was it? Maybe in her desk? She couldn’t have left it at home.
Then her fingertips brushed cool plastic, and the cosmos realigned, every scattered moon and star sliding back into place. Here, finally, was the cheap water bottle she’d filled before leaving her apartment that morning.
She yarded off the lid, raised the vodka to her lips, and glugged. A bulb flickered in the ceiling, its light shrinking and swelling and shrinking again. Here came that blissful sense of focus. Mickey felt calm, attuned. Like she’d developed microscopic vision. Wasn’t there a poem about that? Something about holding eternity in a grain of sand and infinity in an hour. Or was it the other way around? She made a mental note to Google it later.
After another gulp or two, Mickey put the bottle away and stood without even trying to pee. Kindergarten teachers never peed. They’d evolved past it.
Back outside, Jean was gazing at her phone with wonderment and delight. “Can you believe this is a cake and not a ski boot?” she asked, showing Mickey the screen.
“I can’t.” Mickey contained a burp.
Jean started shuffling away. “Don’t wait more than half an hour.” Then it was just the two of them.
As Ian made another starfighter, Mickey sat calmly at her desk and thought rational thoughts. It was bad, minding a child under the influence of alcohol. Mickey knew it was bad. That was why she never did it, ever, except for this once. She’d had a rule since teachers’ college: not a drop of liquor until the bus ride home. Which, the gnawing sensation in her gut reminded her, was supposed to be right now.
And wouldn’t it be even worse to call the police? To launch Ian into the swirling vortex of the child welfare system? Most foster parents were kind and well-meaning, Mickey had no doubt. But even if Ian ended up with someone good—someone who appreciated his creativity and enjoyed hearing his many facts about space travel—that person still wouldn’t love him like his mom. Today would live forever in his memory as the day he was taken. Apprehended. That was the term.
No. Better to sit and wait.
Mickey hugged herself. She wasn’t thinking about the bottle in her bag or how much she wanted another sip. She definitely wasn’t thinking about her father. Not his belly laugh, not his Tigger impression, not those summer Sundays when they’d ambled down to the river and sprinkled pieces of bread for the ducks. He liked being outside, Mickey remembered. He liked lying under tall trees and pruning those bushes in the yard, the ones with the puffy white flowers.
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From Favorite Daughter by Morgan Dick, published by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2025 by Morgan Dick Author Ltd.
