The backstage hallway smelled like pencil shavings and tempera paint, a familiar cocktail of elementary school chaos. Kids poured out of the side door in a burst of noise and color—jackets half on, glitter shedding like confetti, sneakers scuffing linoleum.
I scanned the crowd until I saw her.
Winnie’s cheeks were flushed, her cardigan hanging to her elbow and her boots a little crooked. She looked up, eyes sweeping once more toward the gym behind me, before they landed on my face.
There was a second—just a heartbeat—when her expression brightened, and I knew she thought maybe, just maybe, he was with me.
But then she looked past me and her smile dropped.
Not all the way. Just enough that the air between us lost its shimmer.
“You were amazing,” I said, crouching in front of her. I tugged the cardigan back up over her shoulder and buttoned the top clasp with slow, careful fingers. “You sang so beautifully, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you.”
She gave a little shrug and looked down at her boots. “It wasn’t that good.”
“It was,” I said firmly, tipping her chin up with my fingers. “It was perfect.”
She didn’t argue, but she didn’t smile either. Just nodded, polite and small.
“I thought . . .” she began.
I waited.
She swallowed. “I thought Austin said he was going to be there.”
I kept my face soft. I didn’t flinch. At least not where she could see.
“I know, baby,” I said, putting on the bravest face I could muster. “Me too.”
I stood and helped her into her coat, tucking the sleeves over her sparkly cuffs, brushing glitter from her shoulders. All the while my mind replayed the last moments like a highlight reel I hadn’t asked for.
Winnie practicing in front of the mirror. Winnie asking about her boots. Winnie lighting up at the idea of Austin seeing her perform.
I wasn’t mad, not exactly. I was tired.
So tired of the way hope kept sneaking in, even when I knew better.
“I’m hungry,” Winnie said, rubbing her eyes. “Can we go home?”
“You don’t want to stick around and visit with your friends?” I asked.
Winnie shook her head, her eyes staying glued to my shoes.
“Of course, baby,” I said, looping her hand into mine. “You want to stop for ice cream on the way?”
She glanced up at me. “Only if you’re not mad.”
That was the part that broke me. Not the missing seat. Not the phone that stayed quiet. Not even the sight of her standing alone in a sea of kindergartners, her hope slowly unraveling like thread.
It was her thinking that she needed to tiptoe around my feelings.
I stopped walking. Knelt again so I was level with her.
“I’m not mad. Not at you, okay? Not even a little bit. I’m just proud. So, so proud. You were the best part of my whole day, and I want you to have whatever kind of night makes you happy.”
She nodded, her lip wobbling just a little before she smiled again.
I stood and led her toward the exit, the hallway growing quieter behind us.
