“It does. I signed up for that the night our parents didn’t come home,” I said without hesitation.
The sentence left my mouth calmly, but it hit my body hard anyway. My shoulders stayed squared, but my chest tightened. Responsibility didn’t always feel heroic. Sometimes, it felt like a weight with a pulse. The house was quiet. Down the hall, a door closed, and music started lowly, a muffled rhythm that told me the twins had entered their world—hoodies, playlists, group chats, laughter that bounced off walls I had paid for and protected. The sound was small, but it filled me up. Proof of life. Proof of safety. I turned back to the laptop, clicked submit on the job application, watched the confirmation page load, then closed it.
I leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, letting my eyes rest. The ceiling fan was still. The light above the stove was off. The air felt settled. And still, . . . the image of the fine English teacher from The Pour House slid back into my mind. Her voice stayed in my head—the way she corrected the kids without shaming, how she listened intently to the students, like they mattered, and the way Nana Nan spoke about her, no hesitation, no warning, just respect.
My chest warmed at the thought, and I pushed it down gently. It wasn’t that I didn’t want it. I knew how I moved. I didn’t rush into anything that required maintenance. I didn’t step toward something I wasn’t prepared to keep steady. I didn’t chase what wasn’t mine to chase yet. If she and whatever future came with her were meant to cross my path again, they would. I’d apply all the pressure necessary if she did. I would meet it with intention, not impulse, and with presence, not performance. Until then, I had enough to carry—two girls whose entire world depended on me, a house that held their history, a pool full of kids who needed guidance before the streets tried to raise them, a stack of bills that did not care about sleep, and a version of myself I refused to let the streets reclaim, not even on my tired days, not even on my lonely ones.
“Friday,” Bryce said, lifting his can. “Skylines game. New chapter. Or at least a distraction.”
“Friday,” I agreed. I finally opened my beer and tapped his can with mine. “We’ll see what the city has waiting.”
My phone lit up on the table, alerting me to a notification. I glanced down, expecting some random alert, some bill reminder or some calendar nag baby girl set up. It was an email from the principal at Self Ridge Senior High, my frat brother from college. He invited me in for an interview, stating it was just a formality, and the job was mine.
My shoulders dropped, tension releasing in a slow wave. My throat tightened in a way that had nothing to do with sadness and everything to do with relief. My mind ran straight to the twins—new cleats, choir uniform, unlimited sketchbooks, gas money, then to the bills, paid on time, lights on, fridge full, then to the future, steady, stable, and clean.
I lifted my beer in the air, eyes on the ceiling like I was addressing the only One who deserved the credit. “Everything working out, Big G.”
By Fridayat 4:07 PM, my teacher’s voice had cashed its last check, and my feet were filing formal complaints in my Jordans. The hallway still held the stale scent of dry-erase markers and cafeteria pizza, and the leftover noise from the dismissal bell lingered with loud silence and busy emptiness—like the building itself didn’t understand how to shut down. Stray paper skated along the tile whenever the AC kicked on, little reminders that kids leave pieces of their day everywhere.
I leaned against my classroom doorframe, letting the empty hall breathe around me. The quiet felt like mercy, but it also felt like accusation because solitude always asked me questions I didn’t have the energy to answer. My students had already scattered, leaving behind crumpled worksheets, abandonedpencils, and the faint fog of Axe body spray that could knock out a small elephant.
I stared at the bulletin board in my room—my “Words Matter” corner with student quotes pinned up in bright paper and felt the familiar tug in my chest. I loved them. I really did. But love didn’t cancel exhaustion. Love and tired could exist in the same sentence. That was the oxymoron of teaching: pouring from an empty cup and still somehow filling other people up.
“Ms. Stevens!”
Lord, not now.
My body braced before my face did. I pasted on myI still love childrenexpression, the one I kept tucked behind my molars and pulled out on demand, as Keon came flying down the hall with his backpack half-open, shoelaces untied, and his energy turned up to twenty like he had a private generator.
“Yes, Keon?”
“Ms. Stevens, you said you was gon’ look at my essay before the weekend so I can fix my grade ’fo my mama see it on Parent Portal!”
I glanced at the clock. 4:08. Freedom was within arm’s reach, one more lock turn, one more deep breath, but here he was, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed as Nan would say, panicking like the Parent Portal was a court date.
“Keon, baby, I said email me your draft, remember? I can’t grade what I don’t have,” I said, keeping my tone soft but firm.
He frowned like the truth offended him. “Oh yeah, but I left it in my locker.”
I exhaled through my nose, slowly. Patient. Professional, like a saint with boundaries. “Then it’s gon’ be in your locker ’til Monday. I’ll look at it first thing.”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but one raised eyebrow, just one, and he remembered who I was and where he was and shut that down immediately.
“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, shuffling off.
I watched him go, and a small warmth touched my chest beneath the tiredness. He cared. He cared enough to run back for his grade. He cared enough to want better. That mattered and was the part that kept me coming back Monday after Monday, even when my body begged for a three-day weekend and a silent phone. I went back inside to stack papers, whispering to myself,Growth, girl. The old you would’ve said something that got you a documented consultation.
I was almost finished locking up when a voice rolled down the hall, loud and noisy.
“Girl, are you leaving already?”
Here comes Ms. Brown, resident hallway FBI of the English department.
“Yes, ma’am. I sure am,” I said with a polite smile locked in place.
“Mm.” She dragged it out dramatically. “You must not have that many papers to grade. I still have sixty-four. The Lord gives His hardest battles?—”
I cut her off gently. “And His strongest warriors know when to clock out on time and leave it in His hands. I’ll pray for your endurance. Amen.”
