Teaching, Darcy’s father had always told her, was useful work. It was meaningful work, work that made sense and also made money, and it would allow her to be independent. Darcy had been a bookworm and an introvert as a kid—which was nothing to worry about, her father said, because look how smart she had turned out to be, having spent all that time with her nose in a book. He had raised her alone, a single parent, and had praised and encouraged her: Darcy had basked in the warmth of his approval. When she won a full scholarship to college, he had hugged her and wept. She had made him so proud, he said. She would follow her passion and be free to do what she loved.Article continues after advertisement
Her father—he had been dead for almost a year, but she sometimes found herself newly baffled by his failure to get in touch with her—had imagined that Darcy would teach high school students. But because she had stayed in school for as long as possible, she had ended up with a PhD. Now, a newly hired instructor in a department of English, she discovered that teaching was harder and less rewarding than she had hoped. Jobs were scarce, so she knew she was lucky to have landed the position, but she felt no spark or kinship with her students. What Darcy liked best was to be left alone with a pile of books in a quiet room.
