"This accordion folder?" I held up the battered purple organizer. "It has three years of individual education plans I developed. Marcus called it my 'participation trophy collection,' but this one—" I pulled out a page covered in a child's careful handwriting, "—this is from Jamie, who everyone said would never write his name. It took us six months, but look."
The name JAMIE was written in shaky but clear letters, with a smiley face he'd added on his own.
"And this?" Maria asked, holding up a handmade card covered in glitter.
"From Lucy's parents. She has severe ADHD and sensory processing disorder. Everyone else wanted to medicate her into submission, but I worked with her using movement breaks and sensory input. She went from failing to honor roll in one year."
"These aren't participation trophies," Maria said quietly. "These are evidence that you change lives."
"Marcus didn't see it that way. He wanted me to go into administration, make more money, have a title that sounded impressive at his company events." I carefully returned each item to the box. "He said I was wasting my potential playing babysitter."
"Marcus wouldn't recognize potential if it bit him on his perfectly waxed ass."
I snorted, then covered my mouth, the gesture automatic. Marcus hated when I snorted.
"Oh no," Maria said, catching the movement. "No more of that. You snort when you want to snort. You laugh loudly. You exist in whatever way feels good. That's the whole point of this move, right?"
"Right." I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I start at Wrightwood Primary on Monday. Inclusion Specialist—I'll be floating between grades to support kids with everything from chronic health conditions to learning differences."
"And you'll be amazing." Maria raised her wine glass. "To new beginnings and old friends who drive hours to help you unpack."
We clinked glasses and settled onto the couch I'd bought from a thrift store in San Antonio, the worn leather nothing like Marcus's pristine furniture but infinitely more comfortable. As evening painted the mountains purple and gold, Maria caught me up on San Antonio gossip, steering clear of Marcus except to mention that a friend had seen him at a restaurant with “some poor girl who looked like she’d been styled by committee.”
"Speaking of romance," Maria said with the dangerous gleam that meant she was about to meddle, "this town must have some rugged mountain men. I'm picturing flannel, beards, maybe an ax for chopping wood..."
"Absolutely not," I laughed. "I'm taking a break from relationships. Possibly forever. I need to figure out who I am when no one's trying to improve me."
"Honey, you don't need improving. You needed de-Marcusing, which you've accomplished by moving to—what's this town called again? Wrightwood? Sounds like a Christmas movie setting."
"It does, doesn't it?" I looked out the window where lights were beginning to twinkle in the distance. "That's part of the appeal. Simple, quiet, focused on what matters."
Maria stayed until well after dark, helping me organize teaching materials. When she finally left, with promises to visit in two weeks and threats about daily texts, the cabin felt suddenly vast and quiet.
Chapter 3: Brad
"I swear on my grandmother's grave, if you don't show up tonight, I'm driving to your fortress of solitude and dragging you out by your skates," Theo's voice boomed through my phone as I stood in my kitchen, already formulating excuses.
"Your grandmother is alive and lives in Florida," I pointed out, watching Finn carefully arrange his inhaler collection on the counter—rescue, preventative, and backup.
"Irrelevant. Team family skate night, Brad. FAMILY. That includes you and the little man. No excuses about air quality or crowd exposure or whatever paranoid parent thing you've got brewing."
I wanted to argue, to explain that "paranoid parent things" had kept Finn out of the hospital for nearly a week—a record since winter started. But Theo had been my teammate for six years and my best friend for five. He'd earned the right to call me on my self-imposed isolation.
"Dad, is that Uncle Theo?" Finn appeared at my elbow, eyes bright with hope. "Are we going to the skate tonight?"
Trapped. Theo had clearly timed his call for maximum manipulation.
"Tell my favorite nephew I'll teach him my signature move," Theo said loudly enough for Finn to hear.
"I'm your only nephew!" Finn giggled, already bouncing on his toes. "Dad, please? I promise I'll tell you if I feel tight."
And there it was—the negotiation my seven-year-old had perfected. Acknowledging his condition while refusing to let itdefine him. Sarah would have been proud. Sarah also would have already had us in the car.
"Fine," I surrendered. "But we're bringing—"
"Three inhalers, I know," Finn finished, already racing upstairs to get his coat.
The Wrightwood Community Ice Center was packed when we arrived, the parking lot full of minivans and SUVs with stick figure family decals. I'd pre-medicated Finn with his preventative inhaler in the car, checking his peak flow twice before we even left the house. One-twenty. Good numbers. Safe numbers.
