July 8, Wednesday

It had been another day of waiting, with sporadic announcements of juror numbers who were excused, I presumed, based on some objectionable answer on the questionnaires the judge and two teams of attorneys pored over. But at least I had my plastic knitting needles with me. As the day dragged on, I added several rows to the project I was working on for a beloved cause.

Lily and I were talking again, but the temperature remained chilly. I was hoping things would thaw a bit more at our family therapy appointment this evening.

I checked my watch for the hundredth time. If I left in the next forty-five minutes, I'd make it home in time. With luck.

I'd texted a reminder to both kids and Warren that morning—separately. Lily had responded with a question mark, which wasn't a no. Josh hadn't responded but I could tell he'd at least read it. Warren had responded with a big thumbs up—suspicious, but I was determined to be optimistic.

Worst case, I told myself, I'll pull into a parking lot somewhere and join from my phone. I had a plan. I felt almost competent.

"Now I'll hear reasonable excuses as to why you can't serve for the six months we're estimating the trial will take."

Robert Blackthorne had been doodling on a pad of paper all day and looking generally bored. But now he turned his head to listen to the jurors who'd lined up. They all looked nervous. One woman kept glancing over at Blackthorne and was visibly shaking.

One by one, jurors stood and explained, with varying degrees of composure, why six months of their lives could not be handed over to the federal government. A woman with three kids under five and no childcare. A man recovering from knee surgery who couldn't sit for long stretches. A freelance nurse who would lose her health care if she didn't work, and many more. The judge nodded, made notes, then excused them one by one.

"Does anyone else want to present an excuse?" Judge Arnold asked.

I could say I had two teenagers with no other parent in the home. I could say my family was still healing from a traumatic divorce. I could cite my job search. Either one of those, framed correctly, might be enough. Plus I'd be home in time for the therapy session.

But I didn't raise my hand.

Some of it was pride—I didn't love the idea of standing up in front of three hundred people and itemizing how unsupported my life was. And bottom line, I wasn't ready to talk myself out of this yet.

Finally, the judge thanked the remaining group—maybe two hundred of us now—and released us for the day. "Report back here tomorrow, eight a.m."

What followed was over an hour of frenetic driving. I pulled into the garage with four minutes to spare, feeling victorious.

I burst through the front door. "Lily? Josh?"

No answer. Tucker came running with his leash, indicating he'd been alone all day. I opened my laptop and logged into the Zoom call with ninety seconds to spare.

The little grid of faces loaded. Dr. Anders. And me.

"Good evening, Isabel," Dr. Anders said. "Let's give everyone five minutes, shall we?"

I smiled and nodded, but after ten minutes, I sighed. "Let's try again next week?"

Dr. Anders steepled her fingers. "I want to gently remind you—and I know this isn't entirely in your control—that family therapy is strongly recommended, especially with minor children in the home. Consistency matters."

I felt like an utter failure. "I know. I'll—" I exhaled. "I'll try to do better."

Dr. Anders nodded, kindly, in the specific way of someone who has heard that sentence many, many times, from many, many parents, and has learned not to hold her breath.  ~

Come back tomorrow for another episode of JURY WOMAN! Remember, the story will accumulate for 10 days until it reverts July 11 to show only that day's episode, so invite friends to join in while they can still catch up! ♥

July 7, Tuesday

All three hundred of us were seated in a large courtroom on unforgiving pews, waiting for the judge to arrive. More waiting. I was wishing I'd taken the time to pee when the door behind the bench opened and Judge Arnold walked in, black robe flapping. As he settled behind the bench, a door to his left opened. The U.S. Attorney and her team walked in carrying briefcases and sat down behind a counsel table. After a few loaded minutes, a door to the judge's right opened and a stocky man in an orange jumpsuit was led in wearing leg chains.

"That's Robert Blackthorne," a man near me whispered excitedly. The defendant walked slowly and swept an arrogant smile over the jury pool before sitting heavily behind a second counsel table with his own team of attorneys. A murmur traveled over the room. The judge banged his gavel.

"Silence in the courtroom," Judge Arnold said in a tone that suggested it wasn't a request. "And silence all cell phones, now."  I followed his directions because… well, I follow directions. Plus I was happy to have a reason to ignore the kids' barrage of texts asking where things were.

But throughout, my gaze kept getting pulled back to Robert Blackthorne. He looked like a violent man. Then I stopped myself—that was the kind of conclusion I shouldn't be jumping to, especially on day one.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," the judge said. "You have been summoned as prospective jurors in the case of The United States of America versus Robert Blackthorne. This is a federal criminal prosecution. The indictment alleges violations of the federal racketeering laws, narcotics trafficking, money laundering, and related offenses." He paused and glanced over the courtroom, as if waiting for a reaction.

He got one.

One woman from the jury pool stood, retching, and hurried down the pew to the exit. A half dozen people followed proclaiming loudly.

"No way."

"Let me outta here."

"I ain't doing this."

The judge glowered, but gestured for the bailiff to let them exit, directing him to gather their jury numbers.

I can't lie—the commotion left me rattled, especially since Robert Blackthorne grinned throughout. I was glad I was sitting near the back, with lots of bodies between me and him. I reminded myself again the chances of me making it onto the jury were practically nil. But maybe I'd get a good party story out of it.

"Prospective jurors," the judge said, reclaiming command of the room, "you'll begin today by answering questionnaires. You must answer truthfully and to the best of your ability. Take as much time as you need."

We each received a thick questionnaire, along with a clipboard and pen. It was old school, with spaces for hand-written answers.

Section One asked for personal info that should've been rote but at this juncture in my life, seemed fraught with meaning. Age:  42. Although I felt like I had less wisdom now than when I was in college. Marital status: Seeing the word "divorced" in black and white was jarring, but I checked the box. Education level: Bachelor's degree, business. Current occupation: I wrote "homemaker," resisting the urge to add a parenthetical explaining years of unpaid logistics work. Prior occupations: Marketing assistant, two years. Well, almost two years. I was sure I could handle working and having a baby, but Warren had been offered a promotion that required longer hours so we agreed I'd "take one for the team."  Spouse's occupation: I added an "ex" in front of spouse, then wrote "car salesman." I knew it was petty of me not to list his title as general manager, but I was okay with it. Household members and ages: two children, 16 and 14. Length at current residence: 10 years. The big house in Alpharetta had been an upgrade from our little ranch in Doraville, but it had never felt as homey.

Section Two, the money section, made my stomach do a somersault. Employer: None. Sources of household income: Child support and alimony, two words that still felt strange in my own handwriting, like I'd borrowed someone else's life. Would jury service create a financial hardship? No. Since I wasn't bringing in any income, my income wouldn't be missed.

Section Three asked what I thought about the justice system. Did you trust police testimony? I wrote "generally." Do you trust government agencies? "It depends." What are your views on prosecutors, defense attorneys, plea bargains? I sat there for a long moment, pen hovering, genuinely unsure—and then realized that the uncertainty itself felt like a small miracle. I couldn't remember the last time anyone had asked me my opinion about anything. I took my time to express the fact that I made my decisions about trustworthiness based on the individual, not on their title or role.

Section Four dealt with the logistics of being a juror. Would restrictions on phone and internet access create a hardship? I thought about the PTA and neighborhood watch group chats and my neglected laptop that I used mostly to find recipes and knitting patterns, then wrote "No."  Could you be away from professional and personal responsibilities for approximately six months? I hesitated, twirled my pen, hemmed and hawed, then reminded myself it didn't really matter because I'd never be selected for this jury.

So I wrote "Absolutely."  ~

Come back tomorrow for another episode of JURY WOMAN! Remember, the story will accumulate for 10 days until it reverts July 11 to show only that day's episode, so invite friends to join in while they can still catch up! ♥

July 6, Monday

I wrote "Reporting for jury duty today. Don't forget to walk Tucker later." and left the note on the kitchen bar for the kids to find whenever they made their way downstairs. Lily had barely said ten words to me since yesterday morning. Josh, sensing the tension, had hidden out at the skate park all day. I was so glum over the state of my family and nervous about the drive downtown, I had no appetite for breakfast. But heaven help me, I was relieved to have some place to go that would be a distraction from my life.

I left the house wearing my new green dress with plenty of time to spare—or so I thought. Traffic was a white-knuckle nerve-wracking exercise of accelerating and braking on GA-400 southbound, then the connector into downtown, then navigating narrow one-way streets to the Fulton County courthouse. By the time I found a parking spot in a deck, I had eleven minutes left before my official reporting time, and no idea which of the four buildings in front of me held the courthouse.

I was so focused I nearly collided with a square-jawed man in uniform—black collared shirt, dark tactical pants, a duty belt that looked like it could fix a car or end an argument, and a baseball cap with an insignia I didn't have time to read.

"Pardon me, I'm looking for the courthouse? For jury duty?"

He pointed, unhurried. "That one. Doors on the left, ma'am."

"Thank you so much." I was already moving when I caught him glancing at the dress. He gave me a little nod and I felt a small, ridiculous flutter that I instantly squashed.

I went inside, then waited in a long line to set my bag on a conveyor and walk through a metal detector.

"Ma'am, you can't bring these in."

The security officer held up my knitting needles—my good aluminum ones—like she'd discovered a shiv. People behind me craned to look. My face flamed.

"I brought them to pass the time."

"They're considered a weapon in a federal building," she said in the bored tone of someone who'd had this conversation four hundred times. "You'll need to take them back to your car or we'll dispose of them."

Since I had no time to return to my car, I surrendered my needles, aware that the man in the cap, apparently also headed for court, was standing close enough to hear the whole thing.

"For next time, plastic needles go through fine," he offered.

"Thanks," I murmured, certain there wouldn't be a next time. I would probably be released before my SUV engine had time to cool down.

I followed a pack of people wearing JURY SERVICES name tags like the one I'd been given onto an elevator and to the third floor. We were directed down a maze of hallways to an enormous holding room. Rows and rows of folding chairs were already occupied. Easily a thousand people, all wearing the expression of hostages. I found a seat, looked around and nervously waited. A few minutes later a young woman with a bullhorn announced if she called our name, we were to follow her. She read a few dozen names off a list in a flat monotone. No surprise, mine wasn't one of them. Every hour or so, she reappeared and a chunk of the room disappeared. The rest of us sat. And sat. Because I'd counted on being able to knit, I hadn't brought anything else to occupy my time. My mind did what it always did when it was idle—it replayed the unraveling of my marriage, in excruciating detail. My phone pinged periodically with panicked messages from the kids.

What's jury duty

Google it

When will you be home

I don't know

There's no milk

Look on the bottom shelf in the back

Can't find Tucker's leash

Hanging on the stair banister

When will you be home

I don't know

When will you be home

I don't know

When will you be home

I don't know

And one from Warren:  I left my driving gloves in the cabinet in the garage. Can you bring them by the dealership today?

At jury duty

When will you be home

I gritted my teeth and turned off my phone. And waited. For lunch I got a bag of pretzels and a bottle of tea from vending machines, then got back to waiting. The room was stuffy and I felt silly for wearing my nice dress just to sit. Most potential jurors were dressed much more casually, although a few people wore business attire, as if they expected to be dismissed and return to their jobs. I was envious they had somewhere else to be.

Mid-afternoon, the bullhorn woman came out again to read off more names.

"...Isabel Good..."

I actually looked around, thinking maybe there was another Isabel Good in the room, before I gingerly raised my hand, then stood up. She then announced that everyone whose name hadn't been called was dismissed and she thanked them for their service.

I followed her and others into a smaller room where other potential jurors sat. In all I estimated there were about three hundred of us.  We were given juror numbers—mine was 247.  Judge James Arnold, garbed in a black robe, introduced himself. He was a bulldog of a man with lots of forehead and a deep, gravelly voice.

"The case before the court involves allegations of organized crime, racketeering, and conspiracy to commit murder. The trial is expected to last approximately six months."

Gasps sounded around me. My stomach clenched. The Blackthorne thing? The one from the news?

"If you are selected," the judge continued, "you may be required to serve under conditions of sequestration. Such conditions could include restrictions on internet access, social media, personal electronics, and unsupervised communications."

Around me, I watched roughly half the room go pale. Someone two rows up actually put their head in their hands.

"Return tomorrow morning to courtroom C," the judge said. "The selection process will begin."

I gathered my bag and retraced my steps toward the exit with the murmuring crowd, picking up snippets of remarks.

"Do you think this is the Blackthorne case?"

"It must be the Blackthorne case…"

"…so exciting…"

"…so scary…"

My mind was buzzing, too, with… anticipation?

Which was preposterous. Because I wasn't the kind of person who got picked to do things. This would be over tomorrow.  ~

Come back tomorrow for another episode of JURY WOMAN! Remember, the story will accumulate for 10 days until it reverts July 11 to show only that day's episode, so invite friends to join in while they can still catch up! ♥

July 5, Sunday

Sunday mornings in my house used to mean pancakes, cartoons, and at least one child crying. Now they mean me, a mug of coffee gone lukewarm on the side table, and the soft click of knitting needles in an otherwise silent den. Because given the choice between sleep and existing, my teenagers will always choose sleep.

Tucker and I had already done our loop around the block and now he was sprawled across my feet, snoring.

I picked up the knitting project I'd been working on and let the rhythm take over. Knit, knit, purl. My mother taught me this stitch the summer I turned twelve, sitting on her bed with a basket of yarn between us, patiently untangling my knots without ever once making me feel stupid for tying them. When I knit, I feel close to her in a way I don't anywhere else—which is either lovely or slightly haunted, depending on the day.

Today it tipped toward haunted. I found myself thinking about her last weeks—how small she got, how the nurses were kind in that particular hospice way that somehow makes everything worse, how my father sat in the hallway because he said he couldn't watch.

He remarried fourteen months later. A woman from the church choir named Sandra, who I'm told makes an excellent seven-layer dip and has strong opinions about Tupperware organization. Fourteen months. I used to think that number meant something was wrong with him. Now I wondered if it just meant something was different about him—about men, maybe—like grief was a room they could walk out of, while the rest of us kept adding furniture.

Knit, knit, purl.

I thought about Warren, too, because apparently that's where my brain goes now when left unsupervised. I tried to remember the last time I'd made a decision—a real one, not "paper or plastic"—that didn't somehow orbit around him. His job. His schedule. His preferred brand of coffee, which I still buy, out of habit.

When had I become a moon?

And if I wasn't that anymore—if I peeled off Wife and Keeper of His Coffee—was there an actual person underneath?

I was still chewing on that uncomfortable question when Lily shuffled into the den, hair in a messy topknot, wearing the expression of someone who'd been personally wronged by sunlight.

"Morning," I said. "You got in pretty late last night."

"Mmm." She flopped onto the couch.

"Later than curfew, actually. Don't let that become a habit." I kept my eyes on my stitches, which is a trick I've learned—easier to have hard conversations when you're not making eye contact, like therapy, but with yarn. "Also—and I say this with love—you and Scott at the fireworks were a lot for an audience that included small children."

Lily sat up fast. "Oh my god. I'm allowed to have a life, Mom."

"You are. I just want you to be careful. With your body, I mean. That's all I'm saying."

"You don't get to lecture me about relationships." Her voice cracked, sharp and sudden. "Maybe if you weren't so boring, Dad wouldn't have needed someone else."

The needles stopped.

She was already up, already grabbing her running shoes by the door, already gone in a blur of slammed door before I could find a single word.

My skin tingled as hurt rolled over me.

Then I picked up the needles. Knit, knit, purl.

The worst part wasn't that Lily had said what she'd said.

The worst part was that, lying awake more nights than I'd ever admit, I'd told myself the same thing.  ~

Come back tomorrow for another episode of JURY WOMAN! Remember, the story will accumulate for 10 days until it reverts July 11 to show only that day's episode, so invite friends to join in while they can still catch up! ♥

July 4, Saturday

Our neighborhood does the Fourth of July like it's a competitive sport and I was late to the game. Because Warren was too busy with a holiday sales-palooza at the dealership, I'd shuttled Josh and his friends to their soccer game, doled out a thousand bottles of Gatorade, and sweated my butt off in the bleachers rooting them to an anticlimactic tie. By the time I dragged my folding chair onto the Wilsons' lawn that sported three pop-up canopies, dusk was descending. A Bluetooth speaker played patriotic music at stadium volume. I'd left Tucker at home wearing a thunder vest, with a frozen Kong toy, in case the fireworks spooked him. I was kind of jealous, but I knew from the books I'd read that after a divorce, it was important to maintain traditions.

Lily and Scott had claimed a blanket at the edge of the yard, close enough that I could keep half an eye on them and far enough that they clearly hoped I wouldn't. There is a specific amount of PDA acceptable at a family event, and they were walking the line.

Josh had vanished into a pack of boys near the Pattersons' driveway, all hunched over someone's phone, probably watching World Cup replays. Occasionally one of them erupted in a cheer.

I settled into my chair between two cul-de-sac neighbors, Donna and Pam and Renee, who greeted me with the warmth of people standing six inches farther away than they used to. Pleasant. Friendly. It was as if they were afraid divorce was contagious.

I'd convinced myself I was being paranoid when Meg White descended on me.

Meg lives two streets over and was so immersed in neighborhood gossip, she'd been dubbed Megaphone. We weren't on hugging terms, yet she threw her arms around me and rocked side to side.

"Isabel. Oh my good gosh. I heard about you and Warren—I am so sorry. And that he was cheat—er, seeing someone else. Did you know?"

The fireworks hadn't started yet, but I felt several go off in my chest. I wasn't fast enough on my feet to refute the gossip. "No," I murmured.

"Oh, honey." Meg squeezed my arm, her face arranging itself into an expression of deep, performative sympathy. "The wife's always the last to know. Always."

I looked around the circle of lawn chairs. Donna was suddenly very interested in her paper plate. Pam was squinting at the sky as if willing the show to hurry the hell up.

"Wait—did you guys know?" I asked, incredulous. I'd run into Donna and Pam a half dozen times during and since the divorce and they'd acted as if they were astonished that Warren and I would split.  Neither of them answered. The Bluetooth speaker chose that moment to land on a particularly enthusiastic cymbal crash.

Finally, Renee—who I'd brought a casserole to after her nose job, for the record—said gently, like she was doing me a favor, "I mean, there were rumors. Didn't you ever think it was a little strange when he suddenly started going to the gym at six in the morning?"

I had, in fact, thought it was strange. I'd also thought it was nice—I'd genuinely believed my husband was trying to take care of himself. When I'd found out about Warren's affair, I'd felt like the world's biggest fool, and now I felt ten times the fool.

And then I saw Lily's face. She'd heard it all. Warren and I had agreed to let the kids believe our divorce was mutual and his relationship with Heidi (yes, Heidi) had started after our split. He'd convinced me it was better for everyone involved, and I hadn't wanted to widen the emotional divide between him and Lily and Josh. I'd told myself their mental health mattered more than my moral outrage.

I started toward Lily. She grabbed Scott's hand, said something I couldn't hear, and the two of them melted into the crowd.

I knew how she felt. I wanted to leave, too. I wanted to steal a neighbor's sexy car and drive away from my life. For a few seconds, I fantasized about starting over somewhere else with a clean slate, where no one knew enough about me to pigeon-hole me as a cast-aside mom-thing.

A firework exploded overhead, smashing my fantasy.

I slowly reclaimed my lawn chair and thankfully, the conversations around me dissolved into oohs and aahs.

As I watched the colors bloom and fade against the darkening sky, one thought kept looping to the bombastic background music of brass instruments:  Warren was the one who'd broken our vows. So why did it feel like I was the one being punished?  ~

Come back tomorrow for another episode of JURY WOMAN! Remember, the story will accumulate for 10 days until it reverts July 11 to show only that day's episode, so invite friends to join in while they can still catch up! ♥

July 3, Friday

Elaine had texted me a single word that morning—SHOPPING—followed by a location pin to the mall, which from my sister is less an invitation than a summons. Elaine doesn't ask. Elaine deploys.

"I got the promotion," she announced before I'd even gotten both feet inside Macy's. "Regional VP."

"Elaine, that's amazing." And it was. I squeezed her into a hug. My little sister, thirty-seven, single, childless, and now apparently in charge of an eye-popping number of zeros at the largest bank in the South. She practically vibrated with the kind of happiness that comes from a job that texts you accolades instead of, say, a reprimand for a permission slip you forgot to sign.

"Thank you. Speaking of the bank—did you ever send in that application like I told you to?"

I gave her a bright smile. "I did. And I got back a polite response. 'We've decided to move forward with other candidates.'"

"That was AI-generated. Let me put in a word—"

"Elaine, no. Thanks, but I want to get something on my own. Even if it takes a while."

She studied me for a few seconds, then let it go. "Fine. But you should come on the cruise with me and my friends. We can bunk together like when we were kids. There's a swim-up bar shaped like a pirate ship. I saw a video."

"Elaine. I have two teenagers."

"Who are sixteen and fourteen, and who will survive seven days of microwaving their own Hot Pockets. And they have a father, don't they?"

"Their father can't even remember which kid plays soccer."

"Then maybe," Elaine said in a sing-song voice, holding up a sundress against herself in the mirror, "it would be educational for him to find out."

I had a brief, vivid fantasy of Warren attempting to operate our washing machine and decided not to dwell on it. "Anyway, I can't plan anything. I have jury duty Monday."

Elaine made a noise like a tire losing air. "Oh, please. You know how that goes. You fight traffic downtown, circle the garage forty times looking for parking, then sit in a hot room with a thousand smelly strangers for six hours until some clerk comes out and says everyone can go home because the lawyers worked out a plea deal. It's a complete and total waste of time."

"Probably," I said. "But it'll be nice to have somewhere to be that isn't the grocery store."

"That," Elaine said, "is the saddest sentence I've ever heard."

She pulled a dress off the rack. Deep green, soft fabric, the kind of cut that suggested a person with somewhere to be. "This would look great on you."

I protested, but she grabbed two dresses for herself and hauled me to the dressing room.

I knew it was magic as soon as I pulled it over my head and it floated down my Mom bod. For a few disorienting seconds, I didn't recognize the woman looking back—mostly because she wasn't wearing capris.

"It's gorgeous," I admitted. "But I can't right now. It's not in the budget."

"I thought you said Warren got a new car."

"He did, but I'm sure he got a deep discount on it."

"So? It's not right that your ex is driving around in a hella expensive sports car and you're wearing clothes from Sears."

"I miss Sears."

Elaine appeared in the mirror behind me, arms crossed, doing her VP face. "You cannot spend the rest of your life dressed like you're a chaperone on a field trip. You're allowed to want things."

"But—"

"It's on sale," she said, already heading for the register with it. "Forty percent off. I'm basically saving money by buying it for you."

"That's not how—"

"Don't ruin this for me."

I let her. Arguing with Elaine in a department store is its own kind of exhausting cardio.

But later, walking out with that bag swinging against my leg, I felt a little giddy.  ~

Come back tomorrow for another episode of JURY WOMAN! Remember, the story will accumulate for 10 days until it reverts July 11 to show only that day's episode, so invite friends to join in while they can still catch up! ♥

July 2, Thursday

By nine a.m. I had successfully wrangled two teenagers out the door, fed the dog, and located my keys in the freezer (don't ask), so naturally the universe decided I'd earned a small treat:  an Amazon box sitting on my front steps with WARREN GOOD printed on the label in friendly Amazon font, as if Amazon and I were old friends keeping tabs on my ex-husband's online shopping habits.

I picked it up, weighed it in my hands—it was suspiciously light. Then I texted him a photo.

Package for you. Want to pick it up next time you get the kids?

His reply came back faster than anything involving our children ever did. Can you drop it by the dealership? In meetings all day and I need it.

I stood there a moment, weighing the alternative:  Warren at my door this evening, possibly noting that the hedges needed trimming, like he still lived here and had opinions.

Fine, I texted back.

By the time I'd hit the grocery store for the things we were out of, the warehouse club for the things we weren't out of yet but would be by Tuesday, and the pharmacy for Josh's allergy refill—because nothing says summer fun like a kid who can't breathe near grass—my SUV looked like the back room of a Costco had given birth. I wedged Warren's mystery box between a forty-pound bag of dog food and a flat of toilet paper and pointed the car toward the dealership.

I texted him from the parking lot. I'm here. Front parking lot.

Warren's dealership sells the kind of cars that cost more than some people's houses. In his reserved spot—the one with the little brass plate—sat a brand-new cherry-red convertible.

I sat there a second before getting out, doing the thing I do now, which is take one breath and remind myself I don't have to feel anything about this man anymore. Then I wondered, completely unhelpfully, when exactly we'd stopped loving each other. Was there a specific day? A Tuesday, maybe? Did I miss it because I was folding laundry?

Warren came out wearing a trendy snug-fitting suit and sporting a new haircut.

"Hey." He was already glancing at his phone. "Thanks for this."

"We missed family therapy last night," I said.

"Josh wanted to watch the game—having the FIFA games in town is a once-in-a-lifetime event." Then he frowned. "Honestly, that whole therapy thing's bullshit anyway."

I handed him the box. "Please don't say that in front of the kids. We agreed to it, you know."

Ignoring me, he tore open the box and smiled. "Smart glasses. New model—not even out yet. Guy here got me on the list."

I pursed my mouth. "You said it was something you needed."

"It is," he said easily.

"I see you got a new car."

"That's the one I always wanted."

"I remember," I said. "Good for you."

He looked at me as if trying to decide if I was being snarky. "Thanks. So what's new with you?" he asked.

"I've been job hunting, actually."

Warren laughed. An actual laugh, head back and everything. "Good luck with that. You're not qualified to do anything, Iz."

"Please don't call me that." The word "anymore" hung in the air.

But I was drowned out by the ring of his phone. "Gotta take this," he said. "See you later." He walked away, already absorbed in his conversation, which from his wolfish grin, looked to be personal.

I rolled up the window and sat in my dog-food-scented SUV, blinking hard at the steering wheel.

Not qualified to do anything.

Warren was wrong about a lot of things over the years—the popularity of hybrid cars, the viability of NFTs, the fact that he looked good in a mustache.

But this time, I worried he was right.  ~

Come back tomorrow for another episode of JURY WOMAN! Remember, the story will accumulate for 10 days until it reverts July 11 to show only that day's episode, so invite friends to join in while they can still catch up! ♥

July 1, Wednesday

"July," I said, clicking a dry-erase marker like a starting gun. "Let's get organized."

My two teenagers were eating breakfast at the bar. Sixteen-year-old Lily didn't look up from her phone. "Mom, can you make my eggs less wet next time?"

"They're not wet, they're soft-scrambled. It's a technique."

"It's gross." She pushed away her plate. "And no more toast—you know carbs bloat me."

Fourteen-year-old Josh said nothing. He doesn't speak voluntarily before eight a.m. unless someone questions his Rocket League rank.

Tucker trotted through with his leash in his mouth and dropped it at my feet.

"Soon, buddy," I told him. "Lily, cheerleading day camp starts next week."

"Duh, Mom."

I started filling in the days. "Do you need rides every day or is Coach Brandi still doing the carpool?"

"Carpool, of course."

"Great. Josh, soccer—"

"Practice Tuesdays, games Thursdays and Saturdays," he mumbled.

"You're sure?"

He shrugged. "Coach put it in the group chat."

"You're in a group chat?"

Another shrug, which apparently was its own complete sentence.

I filled in the dates. "Can your dad take you to Saturday games?"

He frowned.  "How should I know?"

I closed my eyes and counted to five. He was right—when Warren and I signed our divorce papers eleven weeks ago, I promised myself I wouldn't put the kids in the middle of the logistics of making our new family dynamic work.

Across the room, the local morning anchor's voice cut through the cacophonous sound of Josh refilling his enormous bowl with more cereal. "—and jury selection for the Blackthorne Syndicate trial is set to begin next week at the Fulton County courthouse, in one of the biggest organized crime cases the country has seen in years—"

I bit down on my lip. My jury summons was sitting on the counter, buried under a stack of mail I'd been ignoring. Next week was my week to report.

For a ridiculous half-second, I wondered what it would be like to get picked on a jury of such notoriety. Then I gave myself a mental pinch—there were dozens of trials going on at any given time in Atlanta… the chances of me being selected for any jury were slim.  They'd take one look at me and say, "Nah."

I turned back to the calendar, returning to Mom Mode. "Don't forget we have family therapy with Dr. Anders tonight. Six o'clock."

The kitchen went quiet. I braced myself for excuses.

"So, I'll be at the skate park," Josh said finally, to his cereal bowl. "And then on to Dad's."

"Your dad's supposed to be on the call, too."

"Not gonna happen," Josh said. "The World Cup knockout game will be on and he's got the eighty-inch screen now."

Of course he did. Everything about Warren's mid-life crisis was supersized.

I turned to Lily, who at least had the decency to wince.

"Scott invited me over to work on our tans by his pool and I said yes. Then he's having a party this evening. I need a ride by the way."

"You told Scott yes before you told me anything."

"If I'd told Scott no, I would've missed out because Josh and Dad won't be there anyway."

She had a point, but still. I turned back to the calendar and quizzed the kids to fill in dates for sleepovers, parties, and concerts. I added the family therapy zoom on Wednesdays. Warren and I had agreed to the sessions in arbitration, so I felt obligated to see it through. When I was finished, nearly every square on the board was filled with at least one activity. I attached it to the refrigerator so no one could say they didn't see an important date on the calendar, then angled my head at Lily.

"You know what would actually help with all of this? If you got your driver's permit. Then you could get yourself to Scott's and to camp and shuttle Josh around."

She gave me a smile—the one she inherited from her father, the one that already knows it's won. "Why would I do that? You take me everywhere I need to go." She jumped up and gave me an exuberant kiss. "I'll grab my bag."

Josh tipped up his cereal bowl to drink the milk, then slid off his stool. "Can I get a ride to the skate park?"

"Sure. First, will you walk Tucker?"

Josh touched his stomach. "Gotta hit the head and it could be a while."

I smirked and waved him away, feeling like I might've been had. I scanned the dirty dishes and leftover food. My hand was halfway to a plate when Tucker whined.

I looked down. "You're right—this mess can wait." I snagged a poo bag from a drawer. "Let's go, buddy."

Besides, maybe one of the kids would clean up before I got back.

A mom can dream.  ~

Come back tomorrow for another episode of JURY WOMAN! Remember, the story will accumulate for 10 days until it reverts July 11 to show only that day's episode, so invite friends to join in while they can still catch up! ♥