Chapter 300
Chapter 300
Rosalind
I stared at the stack of bills on our tiny kitchen table, my wheelchair positioned at an angle that let me reach the calculator without straining. Rent: $300. Utilities: $150. Groceries: $280. Hannah's medical expenses: $220. The numbers swam before my eyes, no matter how many times I added them up.
Our monthly expenses: $950. My income from last month's DoorDash and Uber driving: $1,047.
Ninety-seven dollars left over. For everything else. For emergencies. For the future we were supposedly building together.
Hannah hummed softly in the bedroom, folding the laundry I'd managed to wash but couldn't hang on the line myself. The simple domestic sounds that once brought me peace now filled me with a crushing sense of inadequacy. She did everything—cooking, cleaning, shopping, working her part-time job at the local library. I contributed... what? Awkward meal delivery runs where I had to convince customers that yes, the guy in the wheelchair really was their driver?
I wheeled myself to the window, looking out at the rolling hills of Millbrook. Six months ago, I would have spent more on a single dinner than we now had for an entire month. The irony wasn't lost on me—I'd finally learned the value of money just as I'd lost all access to it.
My laptop sat open on the table, the local job listings webpage taunting me with opportunities I couldn't realistically pursue. Physical labor jobs dominated the market, along with positions requiring college degrees I'd never bothered to earn when Daddy's money made education seem unnecessary.
But today was different. Today I was going to the Millbrook Regional Employment Fair—a gathering of local businesses looking for workers with actual career potential, not just gig economy desperation. The average salaries advertised ranged from $35,000 to $60,000 annually. Life-changing money for people like Hannah and me.
I'd been putting off going for weeks, inventing excuses. Too far to drive. Probably wouldn't hire someone in a wheelchair anyway. What if someone recognized me?
But this morning, watching Hannah count out exact change for groceries, I'd finally admitted the truth to myself: my pride was a luxury we could no longer afford.
The Millbrook Community Center buzzed with nervous energy as job seekers moved between tables representing different local employers. I'd spent an hour getting ready—the best shirt I owned (a button-down that Hannah had somehow kept wrinkle-free despite our broken dryer), khakis that hid the worst of my wheelchair wear, and a tie I'd practiced knotting until my hands stopped shaking.
The months of physical therapy had done more than restore some function to my arms and hands. They'd taught me patience, persistence, and how to project confidence even when I felt none. These were skills that, ironically, my privileged upbringing had never provided.
I approached the table for Millbrook Industrial Solutions, a mid-sized company that managed logistics for several manufacturing firms. The salary range listed was $45,000-$55,000 for supervisory positions.
"Good morning," I said to the recruiter, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes. "I'm interested in learning about your management trainee positions."
"Wonderful!" she said warmly. "I'm Sarah Mitchell, HR Director. Tell me a bit about your background."
This was the moment I'd been dreading and preparing for in equal measure. How do you explain a complete life transformation in a few sentences?
"I have extensive experience in strategic planning and team coordination," I began, the words flowing more smoothly than I'd expected. "I've managed complex projects with multiple stakeholders, handled crisis situations requiring quick decision-making, and learned to work effectively under pressure."
It was all true—technically. The "strategic planning" had been scheming against innocent people, and the "crisis management" had involved covering up my father's crimes, but the transferable skills were real.
Sarah nodded approvingly as I continued, describing how my "career transition" had taught me the value of hard work and authentic leadership. She seemed genuinely impressed by my answers, making notes and asking follow-up questions that suggested real interest.
"Mr..." she paused, looking at my application.
"Montgomery," I said, hoping the name wouldn't ring any bells in rural Massachusetts.
"Mr. Montgomery, I have to say, you present yourself very well. The position would involve overseeing logistics coordination for three manufacturing clients, managing a team of fifteen, and ensuring on-time delivery of materials. Based on our conversation, I think you'd be an excellent fit."
My heart was pounding. An actual job. A real career. Enough money to take care of Hannah properly, maybe even start building toward something better.
"I'd like to introduce you to our CEO, Mr. Patterson," Sarah continued. "He makes the final hiring decisions, but I'm confident he'll be as impressed as I am."
Mr. Patterson approached from across the room—a tall, weathered man in his sixties with the bearing of someone who'd built his business from nothing. Sarah introduced us with evident enthusiasm.
"Tom, this is Calloway Montgomery, the candidate I mentioned for the logistics supervisor position. He has exactly the kind of leadership background we've been looking for."
Patterson shook my hand firmly, his initial assessment seeming positive. "Sarah speaks highly of you, son. Tell me, what brings you to Millbrook? Not many folks with management experience end up in our little corner of Massachusetts."