“You remember that?” I laughed, embarrassed and flattered all at once.
“Of course I do. You made it look like Broadway in there.”
It shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did, that simple kindness. It had been months since anyone associated me with who I really was… A teacher.
I swallowed against the sudden heat in my throat and nodded again, pretending to be absorbed in a display of hand-painted pumpkins.
The new school was smaller than my old one, but newer. Sleek whiteboards, tablets stacked in charging docks, a library nook that could’ve doubled as something out of a magazine spread. Everything gleamed with potential, like it was just waiting for me to step in and take my place again.
I imagined it for a second — standing in front of my own classroom again, little faces looking up at me, mornings full of songs and sticky fingers and construction paper chaos. I imagined going home at the end of the day to my own apartment, maybe picking up takeout, calling Liv to complain about report cards or rowdy buses on field trip days.
It was the life I’d fought so hard for. The one that got ripped from me without permission or warning.
Mrs. Alcott stopped beside a doorway and gestured inside. “And here we are.”
My heart skipped, and I paused at the threshold of the kindergarten class.
The room was flooded with late morning light. Every surface looked brand new. Bright tables, bins sorted by color, a reading corner draped in gauzy fabric. A single poster hung over the chalkboard in tidy cursive:Be kind. Be curious. Be brave.
I stepped inside slowly, my flats sinking into the soft rug. The smell of fresh paper and lemon cleaner hit me, sharp and comforting all at once.
“This would be your room,” she said. “You’d start next week if you accept. No pressure, but I really hope you’ll accept.”
I smiled and turned in a slow circle, already seeing the possibilities. The name tags I’d set out. The bulletin board themes and morning songs we’d sing.
This was it. This was my chance to finally put my life back in order.
I ran my fingers along the edge of a small desk at the front of the class, tracing the smooth wood. “It’s perfect.”
I sank into the desk chair, laying my palms flat in front of me as I looked over the classroom. My room. If I accepted her offer. Much nicer than the one I’d left. Pretty close to the one I always wished I’d end up in.
And yet, sitting there, I felt oddly out of place. Like I’d slipped into a play of someone else’s life and was struggling to remember the lines.
Mrs. Alcott pointed toward the corner of the room where a basket of storybooks waited. “The reading nook over there doubles as a dress-up theater. Costumes are stored on the other side of the shelves. It’ll prompt creative play.”
My gaze drifted to the empty corner of the class, and suddenly I saw Sadie curled up with a picture book, the day’s paint smudges still faint on her fingers, sounding the words to herself. I could almost hear her quiet giggles.
It was ridiculous, the clarity hitting me in a single beat. In a classroom full of promise and carefully curated supplies, I felt a pang of wrongness. This life I had mapped out, every detail so neat and attainable… it didn’t fit me anymore. Not now.Not after the past few weeks with the kids. With Ethan, Miles, and Adrian. They’d all changed something in me that I wasn’t expecting.
Mrs. Alcott’s voice cut through the swirl of emotions blustering inside me. “We’ll have labels printed for cubbies next week, but I wanted to show you where the art supplies go. The children will get to help keep things organized, of course. Responsibility and pride in our spaces are big themes this semester.”
I forced a smile and nodded, but my fingers tightened on the edge of the desk. Responsibility and pride. I could feel it everywhere in this room. But the weight of being the person in charge, the person who mattered most to these children, the one who shaped their world. And I wanted it. I did. But not at the expense of everything else that had shifted inside me.
I leaned back in the chair, letting my eyes sweep the room. It was perfect, every bit of it, and yet… hollow. The chairs were tucked neatly under tables, the books stacked with precision, the sun spilling golden light across surfaces that smelled faintly of fresh paint and potential. But I couldn’t shake the thought that none of it belonged to me. Not really.
“Are you alright, Maren?” Mrs. Alcott asked softly, breaking into my reverie. She had noticed the pause, the slack in my posture.
I blinked, shaking my head lightly. “Yes, of course. Just… thinking about how quickly the students will make this place theirs.”
“That’s the fun part,” she said with a smile, and stepped closer to a bulletin board. “You know how fast different personalities leave their mark.”
Yeah, I knew that better than I knew a lot of things. Especially now.
My life had been a careful equation: teach, pay bills, get back on track. And yet, these past weeks had rewritten the formula in ways I hadn’t accounted for.
I pushed back from the desk and stood, letting the legs of the chair scrape lightly against the floor. The sound was sharp in the quiet room, a small reminder that I was here, that I belonged in this space physically even if my mind was elsewhere.
Mrs. Alcott gestured toward the door. “Shall we continue? I want to show you the rest of the school before we finalize the paperwork.”
