She’s Fine is a collection of short fiction that explores the inner lives of women as they navigate the layered contradictions, intricate demands, and quiet absurdities of contemporary life. With keen observation and moments of dark humor, these stories capture the art of composure—maintained gracefully, strategically, and with just enough restraint to preserve social order.
Each narrative highlights small reckonings of ordinary days: the polite exchanges that conceal private upheaval, the quiet calculations underlying a simple “I’m fine,” the mental gymnastics required to appear unshaken in a world that seldom notices the strain.
Perfect for readers drawn to smart, character-driven fiction with wit, satire, and emotional precision, She’s Fine offers an honest, entertaining, and quietly defiant portrait of modern womanhood.
She’s Fine is a collection of short fiction that explores the inner lives of women as they navigate the layered contradictions, intricate demands, and quiet absurdities of contemporary life. With keen observation and moments of dark humor, these stories capture the art of composure—maintained gracefully, strategically, and with just enough restraint to preserve social order.
Each narrative highlights small reckonings of ordinary days: the polite exchanges that conceal private upheaval, the quiet calculations underlying a simple “I’m fine,” the mental gymnastics required to appear unshaken in a world that seldom notices the strain.
Perfect for readers drawn to smart, character-driven fiction with wit, satire, and emotional precision, She’s Fine offers an honest, entertaining, and quietly defiant portrait of modern womanhood.
Ah, our new home, our quaint little castle in suburbia—where the neighborhood moms are as impeccably manicured as their lawns, and each driveway gleams with an over-sized SUV that not-so-subtly suggests overcompensation.
Everything from the houses to their occupants screams “fancy pants,” right down to the equally well-groomed neighborhood dogs, all of which are of some designer breed (naturally) that almost always ends with “-oodle.”
My kids, bless their sweet little oblivious hearts, have become utterly obsessed with the local park. Their eagerness to spend every waking hour at its playground is matched only by my desire to leave it.
Ever the resourceful parent, I make a valiant effort to dissuade them, deploying my very best anti-playground propaganda.
“Pfft, swings and stuff—SO lame… am I right, guys?”
“Wow, our big, empty, slide-less backyard is, like, so awesome! So many… uh, possibilities.”
“Can you guys believe this weather? Ugh, it’s just so, um, sunny.”
“Hey, who wants to, like… build… uh… make… hmm… break something?”
But my genius ideas fall flat, their brilliance doing nothing to deter the little fiends. Each attempt flops like a fluff-less, gluten-free pancake, and my precious babies shoot down my best shot, adjust their horns, and kick it… repeatedly. They stare me down, heads tilting in unison like a pair of judgy owls, wearing ruthless expressions that could suggest promising futures in politics.
Resigned to my fate, I surrender with a long, Oscar-worthy sigh and start chugging down a second… fourth cup of coffee because… well, because I friggin’ need caffeine, okay?
Fully fortified in my caffeinated armor, we finally embark on our journey to the local park—a perilous five-minute trek that feels less like a pleasant stroll and more like a quest to Mordor. My kids sprint ahead like they’re frolicking through a meadow while I trudge behind them, mentally rehearsing fake weekend plans and practicing noncommittal shrugs.
As soon as we reach the entrance, my darling children are off—barreling into the mulch like a couple of feral raccoons charging an empty pizza box.
An array of blindingly white smiles greets me, each dental display more dazzling than the last, meticulously tucked behind lips that have seen the touch of a needle more often than a seamstress’s thumb.
I, in all my awkward glory, feel as misplaced as the tattered Say Anything T-shirt I unearthed from the ruins of my wardrobe while searching my closet for something to wear. Naturally, I took one look at the old band tee from ten years and two sizes ago and thought… perfect.
I descend the hill, waving at the group as if I’m acting out a broken windshield wiper in a game of charades. Using a voice usually reserved for doctors or my great Aunt Marie, I call out a “Hey, ladies,” and then trip over a seesaw. My graceless tumble spirals into an even more graceless attempt to laugh it off, and I eventually take my place at the end of the mom line—landing like a misplaced semicolon.
The prospect of small talk looms ahead—a thrill I’ve always found to be about as delightful as a urinary tract infection—and I brace for it.
I nod, my brain on silent autopilot, as a brigade of blonde heads bobs in unison, going on about topics I don’t understand and groaning about people I pretend to know. I muster my fifth or sixth, “Oh my god, right!?” while the woman next to me launches into a story about her “vacation nanny” that is as riveting as a paper cut.
I continue juggling my silent judgment while simultaneously striving to blend; fitting in about as well as I fit in this outfit.
I’m a hair flip away from faking a phone call… or death… when I spot her. Among the parade of practiced perfection, I notice a young mother of three standing at the far end of the PTA mom row. As the conversation shifts from how hard it is to find a decent Pilates instructor to the alleged “dreadful taste” of some woman named Trisha, she catches my rolling eyes. I swear I hear a heavenly chorus of sweet suburban angels burst into exaggerated hallelujahs when she stifles a knowing laugh.
Her genuine smile is as refreshing as an extra-light-and-sweet coffee among a sea of triple venti half-caf soy non-somethings.
Trying for subtlety and failing miserably, I offer her a wave, as if I’m Forrest Gump spotting Lieutenant Dan. She smiles, and I pray for coherence as she approaches.
“Your girls are so beautiful,” she says, gesturing toward my daughters, who, at the moment, are chasing a squirrel like it’s the last ticket to a Taylor Swift concert. “How old are they?”
Her sincerity is evident, offering a much-needed breath of fresh air as she waits for my response.
And I, with all the grace and eloquence of a startled newborn deer, manage to blurt out something resembling, “Nnnah, good, how are you?”
She’s fine, by the way.
Dad waves from his recliner, eyes fixed on the TV like it owes him money.
A quick read, just six short stories, all highlighting moments of womanhood that, I'm sure, many women will find resonate with them. From the awkwardness of the artificial friendship of playground mums to the family dinner where the singleton finds herself in the spotlight, unfairly maligned in comparison to the grandchild-providing sibling; from the dilemma of the post-date text to the melancholy of the solo wedding attendance - these are all moments that continue to appear in sitcoms and stand-up routines due to both their universality and potential for comedy.
And there are moments in She's Fine that threaten to cross the line between observation and observational comedy. Wheeler has a way with words and an eye for a pithy one-liner - I doubt anyone could suppress a snort at the wedding venue in Table Eleven being described as "rustic barn meets curated Pinterest board" - but the gags do sometimes come at you thick and fast.
However, Wheeler has a number of skills to her name to see off that threat. Her prose is immaculate; it's not just the quips that are well-crafted, everything is. Her eye for detail is exceptional and her characters have a depth that elevates them above stereotype (no mean feat in a short story). She also knows exactly how to finish a story, the perfect last line, never outstaying her welcome.
The collection is also perfectly weighted. Tuesdays are for Closure, possibly the weakest story, and Customer Disservice, the one that feels most like a comedy routine, are the second and third stories out of the six. Meanwhile, She's Fine finishes with Judith Loves Riesling and Table Eleven, the strongest offerings, leaving the reader in no doubt of her skill.
And the reason Judith Loves Riesling and Table Eleven are the heavy-hitters? Heart. The longest of the stories, which provides the opportunity to dig a little deeper, but also the stories that deal with the deepest themes; the pressure on women to reproduce, and dealing with other people's happiest moments as your own life enters a new, potentially uncomfortable chapter that's been imposed upon you. Both stories still have razor-sharp gags, but both leave the reader moved.
“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “you were my favorite part of the night.”
“Thanks,” I whispered. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in months.”
A smart collection then, a funny collection, but one that also touches the reader; bound up in flawless prose, perfectly weighted and, I should add, very much not just for the female reader. What's not to love?