Chains

Wrong number

Margaret sat at the kitchen table, laptop open, the twins' drawings scattered around her coffee mug. She was halfway through revising a document when a new email popped into her inbox. The subject line made her pause:

Proposal for Long-Term Contract

She clicked it.

Hello, I'd like to hire you for ongoing work. Weekly pay, higher than your usual rate. I prefer to stay anonymous, but you'll get clear instructions. Please confirm if you're interested.

Margaret scrolled to the bottom. The listed rate was more than she had ever charged. She stared at it, then rubbed her eyes, wondering if she was reading wrong.

The sender's address was nonsense letters and numbers, no real name. Weird. But steady money like this? She couldn't afford to question it.

Her fingers flew over the keyboard: I accept. Please send details.

She hit send. Her chest felt tight with a mix of nerves and relief.

Before she could even stand to refill her coffee, her phone buzzed on the table. Unknown number.

She hesitated, then answered. "Hello?"

"Margaret."

Her stomach sank. Richard's mother.

"Yes?"

"I'm at the preschool," Mrs. Hall said sharply. "Apparently there was a fight. They called me because they couldn't reach you. I assume this is your fault somehow. Get here. Now."

Margaret froze. "Wait—why would they call you?"

"I don't know and I don't care. Just get here."

The line went dead.

Margaret shoved her laptop shut, grabbed her keys, and ran out the door.

The preschool office smelled faintly of crayons and sanitizer. Claire sat with her arms crossed tight, eyes glaring at the floor. Christopher's shirt was stretched at the collar and his backpack lay half-open at his feet.

Across the room, Mrs. Hall sat stiff-backed in a designer coat, her legs crossed neatly. She didn't even look up when Margaret rushed in, just kept her sharp eyes locked on the teacher.

"—and that's when Claire started throwing the blocks," the teacher was saying.

Margaret blinked. "Throwing what?"

"Wooden blocks," the teacher explained. "Another child refused to share, and Claire reacted by throwing. Christopher joined her."

The principal, who stood nearby, folded his arms. "It was disruptive and dangerous. We had to remove them both."

Margaret turned on her twins. "You threw things?"

"She called me a baby!" Christopher shouted.

"She said I was bossy!" Claire added, scowling.

"That doesn't mean you throw blocks!" Margaret's voice rose, sharper than she intended.

Mrs. Hall leaned forward, her tone like a whip. "Listen to me, both of you. Halls do not cry and throw fits. You lift your head, you stand taller, and you don't let anyone see you weak. Do you understand?"

Claire's lip wobbled. Christopher looked down at his shoes.

Margaret straightened, anger burning. "They don't need to hear about pride right now. They need to hear that throwing blocks is wrong. They're kids, not soldiers."

"Better to learn strength early," Mrs. Hall said coolly. She rose to her feet, smoothed her coat, and shot Margaret a sharp look. "Discipline them however you want. But make sure this doesn't happen again. It reflects badly. On them—and on you."

Without another word, she turned and walked out.

The office went quiet.

Margaret crouched in front of her twins. "Alright, both of you are in trouble. No TV tonight."

"But she was mean first!" Claire protested.

Christopher sniffled. "She called me baby."

Margaret sighed. "Doesn't matter. You don't throw things. Ever. Got it?"

They both nodded reluctantly.

"Good. Let's go."

Dinner that night was tense. The twins sulked over plain spaghetti before bed. Margaret cleaned the kitchen alone, the silence heavy.

Back at the table, she opened her laptop. The anonymous client had already sent over files for the first assignment. A pile of editing work—simple, boring, but easy money. Payment had already landed in her account.

Margaret stared at the number on the screen. Her shoulders dropped. Things were still tight, but it could be worse.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Kelsey lit the screen: Heard Richard's mom showed up at preschool. Want to spill?

Margaret hit call.

"You should've seen her," she said as soon as Kelsey picked up. "She walked in like she owned the place, lectured the kids about standing taller. Like they're four, not candidates running for office."

Kelsey snorted. "And the kids?"

"Claire pouted. Christopher sulked. It was a mess."

"And you?"

Margaret rubbed her temple. "Honestly, I'm just confused how they even got her number."

"You think she gave it to them herself?" Kelsey asked.

Margaret frowned. "Maybe. She hates those kids though, why would she?"

"Because she wanted to make you look bad," Kelsey said. "Come on, Margaret, it's obvious."

Margaret bit her lip. "She looked at me like I was nothing. Like I'd failed them already."

"Forget her," Kelsey said firmly. "You're keeping those kids alive, fed, and educated—kids your husband had in an affair. That's more than anyone expected from you."

Margaret's throat tightened. She couldn't even answer right away.

"Hey," Kelsey's voice softened. "You're doing the impossible. Don't forget that."

Margaret swallowed hard. "Thanks."

They said goodnight, and Margaret set the phone down.

The house was quiet. The twins were asleep. Margaret sat at the kitchen table with only her laptop glow for company.

Her eyes drifted, uninvited, back to the night everything had broken.

She had been standing at the sink, washing dishes. Soap bubbles clung to her wrists. The phone buzzed on the counter, an unfamiliar number. She almost ignored it.

When she answered, the voice on the other end was calm. Too calm. The police. They told her about the accident. Richard. And the woman with him.

The dish towel had slipped from her hand, soaking the floor as she clutched the edge of the sink, her voice cracking as she asked them to repeat it.

That was the night her world cracked in two.

She shook herself back to the present, closing her laptop. Tomorrow the twins had school again. Tomorrow the work would still be waiting.