"TEAM RALLIES BEHIND CAPTAIN IN CUSTODY BATTLE"
I can't help but smile. Logan's statement was perfect—honest, unapologetic, deeply personal. He claimed us publicly, refused to back down. The coffee maker beeps, and I pour thelovely liquid into my favorite mug that my kindergartners made for me last Mother's Day. The irony isn't lost on me.
My classroom. My kids. The texts from Mrs. Lincoln loom in my mind as I rush through my morning routine. I pull on a conservative navy dress, apply minimal makeup, twist my curls into a neat bun. Professional. Trustworthy. I need every bit of armor I can get today.
The drive to school takes ten minutes longer than usual. I rehearse possible conversations with Mrs. Lincoln, arguments in defense of my teaching record, reminders of my consistently excellent evaluations. The parents love me. I've done nothing wrong. Nothing.
The first hint that today is different comes when I turn onto the street where Lincoln Elementary sits. News vans line the curb, their satellite dishes extending skyward like strange mechanical flowers. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel. I park in my usual spot, take three deep breaths, and step out into the cold February morning.
"Ms. Thompson! Can we get a statement about your relationship with Logan McCoy?"
"Reese! How has the custody battle affected your classroom?"
"Is it true you're being called 'Bonus Mommy' by Logan's son?"
The questions feel like sleet hitting my face, sharp and stinging. I ignore them. I clutch my tote bag closer to my chest, eyes locked on the school entrance. Twenty feet away. Fifteen. I catch fragmented images—camera lenses, microphones thrust forward, the flash of recording lights.
Parents drop off their children at the curb, their eyes following me with undisguised curiosity. Mrs. Alvarez, whose daughter Lucia is in my class, offers me a small, sympathetic smile. But Mr. Chen, whose twins I've spent hours with duringafter-school tutoring, deliberately turns away when our eyes meet.
"Ms. Thompson!" Ellie Wilson, one of my students, breaks free from her mother's grip and runs toward me, arms outstretched. I kneel automatically, catching her in a hug that smells like her shampoo and the maple syrup she must have had for breakfast. "I made you a picture!" she announces, proudly presenting a crayon drawing of what appears to be me surrounded by dinosaurs.
"It's beautiful, honey," I tell her, my voice steady despite the cameras capturing every moment. "Why don't you go inside and put it on my desk? I'll be right there."
Mrs. Wilson, our assistant principal approaches, her expression tight. "Come on, Ellie. Ms. Thompson needs to get to her meeting before class starts." The emphasis on "meeting" makes it clear she knows something I don't.
The school's front hallway is eerily quiet. Usually, it buzzes with children's voices, teachers calling greetings to one another, the general chaos of elementary school morning. Today, conversations halt as I pass. The secretary doesn't meet my eyes when I pass the office, just gestures toward Mrs. Lincoln's office. "She's waiting for you."
My fingers are tingling as I knock on the familiar door.
"Come in, Reese."
Mrs. Lincoln sits behind her desk, tapping her pen against her coffee mug. Never a good sign. She's been principal here since I was in middle school, her steel-gray bob and oversized round glasses as much a fixture of Lincoln Elementary as the ancient oak tree in the playground. Beside her sits Mr. Dalton, the school district's HR director. This isn't good.
"Please, have a seat," Mrs. Lincoln gestures to the chair across from her desk. I sit, smoothing my dress with damp palms, my back ramrod straight.
"I assume you've noticed the media presence outside," she begins, her tone carefully neutral.
"Hard to miss," I reply, aiming for lightness and missing by a mile.
"We've received seventeen calls from parents since yesterday evening." She slides a folder toward me. "They're concerned about the disruption to their children's learning environment. About privacy. About having their children photographed without consent when reporters are trying to get to you."
The folder remains closed between us. I don't need to open it to know what it contains—complaints, demands, perhaps even threats to remove children from my classroom.
"I've never brought my personal life into my classroom," I say, my voice quieter than I intend. "Not once."
"This isn't about your teaching, Reese." Mr. Dalton speaks for the first time. "Your evaluations are excellent. They are among the highest in the district."
"Then what is it about?" I ask, though I already know.
Mrs. Lincoln sighs, removing her glasses. "It's about the circus that follows you to our front door. The reporters asking children about their teacher's boyfriend. The photographers who might capture images of students—some of whom have custody situations of their own, some whose parents have restraining orders against ex-partners."
"I don't control the media."
"No, but your presence here draws them." Her voice softens, which somehow makes it worse. "The school board president has suggested, and I agree, that it would be best for everyone if you took a leave of absence. Until this situation... resolves itself."
My face burns, humiliation spreading through me like wildfire. "You want me to abandon my students in the middle of the school year?"
"Mrs. Henderson has agreed to take over your class. She’s the best substitute in the district." Mr. Dalton's tone suggests this is already decided.
