Those are supposed to be Ben’s after school snack,I remind myself, and force myself to stop.
It was Ben’s first day back to school this morning. As in,actualschool, not homeschooling by yours truly.
I’d prepped like I was launching a product campaign. Brave rules laminated and tucked in her backpack. Frederick wearing a tiny courage cape I sewed from scrap fabric at two in the morning because apparently insomnia is my new best friend. Stickers in case of emergency emotional regulation needs.
When your contingency planning rivals a military operation but you’re really just trying to keep a traumatized kindergartener from having a meltdown in front of her classmates.
The morning drop-off went smoothly. Too smoothly.
My phone has been surgically attached to my hand all day.
Zero calls.
Which should feel like a win except my anxiety brain has decided that silence equals impending disaster. Classic algorithm thinking. If engagement drops, something must be catastrophically wrong.
I check the time.
Two forty-five.
Pickup in fifteen minutes.
Rosa appears beside me with a container of freshly cooked pasta.
“For you,” she says in that matter-of-fact way that somehow makes everything feel slightly less terrible.
“Thanks.” I take the container. The smell of butter and parmesan hits me and my stomach reminds me I forgot lunch again.
When you’re so busy keeping everyone else fed and functional that you forget your own basic human needs.
I devour the dish.
Jag drives me to pickup. The school looks exactly the same as it did this morning except now I’m about to find out if Ben survived or if I’m about to deal with a call from the school counselor.
I spot her in class as the other students are exiting. Navy jumper, white shirt, those ridiculous knee socks that never stay up. She’s holding Frederick against her chest. Her face is blank.
Not crying though. That’s something.
“How was she?” I ask Mrs. Chen, expecting the worst.
Mrs. Chen actually smiles. “She was wonderful. Very calm. Participated in circle time. Shared her crayons with Emma.”
“Oh.”
When you’ve built up this whole catastrophe narrative in your head and reality decides to go off-script in the best possible way.
I glance back at Ben, who’s still staring straight ahead like she didn’t just casually nail her first day back at school post-bear-attack-trauma. “Thank you for letting me know.”
“Of course. See you tomorrow, Benedetta!”
Ben merely nods blankly.
I lead her to the coat room, grab her jacket, then we leave.
She climbs into the SUV without a word. Buckles herself in with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times.
I wait until we’re moving before I try. “Heypiccola. I heard you had a good day?”
“Yeah.”
