"Change is scary," I said carefully, "even when it's good. Even when we know something beautiful might be waiting on the other side."
Sarah considered this with her characteristic seriousness, her brown eyes thoughtful. "Like when Uncle C made me try broccoli for the first time?"
"Exactly like that."
"I still don't like broccoli though."
"Growth is a process, sweetheart. A long, vegetable-filled process."
Chloe giggled from her spot on the rug, her red braids bouncing. Leo, our quietest member, was tracing the illustration of the seed with one careful finger, absorbed in the tiny details.
"Leo, can you find where the seed is hiding in the picture?" I asked gently.
He pointed to the dark soil in the illustration. "There. It's underground where nobody can see it."
"Perfect. And what do you think it's feeling down there, all alone in the dark?"
"Scared," Leo whispered, barely audible. Then, after a pause: "But maybe also... excited?"
"That's such an interesting answer." I smiled at him warmly, and he ducked his head, pleased by the praise. "Sometimes we feel both things at exactly the same time. Scared and excited together. That's completely okay and completely normal."
Tutoring had become our Saturday ritual; at ten o'clock sharp, four eager faces gathered in my living room like clockwork. Chloe, with her bright red backpack and boundless restless energy, was always the first to arrive. Leo, shy and carefully observant, was finally starting to raise his hand without being prompted. Tommy, whose vibrant energy matched Chloe’s, was probably why they were always on each other’s toes. And Sarah, who'd transformed from a quiet, watchful girl into someone who offered predictions and insights that regularly surprised me with their depth.
I told myself it was just good teaching. Small-group attention, targeted instruction, and the deep satisfaction of watching lightbulbs of ideas flicker on behind young eyes.
Cole staying to "wait on the porch" was merely neighborly. A practical man seeing practical problems and solving them. The first week, he'd fixed the squeaky boards and the wobbly railing. The second, he'd rehung my storm door so it finally swung true and silent. Last week, he'd cleared the clogged gutters on the north side of the cabin. At this rate, my cabin would be better maintained than the day I'd bought it.
I should probably start breaking things on purpose just to keep him coming back.
"Ms. Reed?" Chloe's impatient voice pulled me back to the present moment. "Is it snack time yet? My stomach is making weird noises."
I glanced at the clock on the wall. "Five more minutes. Let's finish this page first, and then we'll take a break. Sarah, will you read the next paragraph for us?"
Sarah straightened proudly in her seat and began reading aloud. "The little seed... pushed through the dark soil. It was hard work. But the seed... remembered what the sun felt like. And that memory gave it strength."
"Beautiful reading," I said, genuinely meaning it. "You didn't rush a single word. I'm so proud of your progress."
"Uncle C says rushing makes you miss all the good stuff."
"Your uncle is a very wise man."
Through the window behind the children, I could see Cole on the far side of the porch, kneeling with his back to us. He'd found something else to repair. Of course, he had. The man was physically incapable of sitting still for more than five minutes.
"Okay," I announced, closing the book gently. "Snack time. Five minutes outside to run around, and then we'll come back and finish our story. Deal?"
"Deal!" the children chorused.
They exploded toward the front door with the enthusiasm unique to children who'd been promised both freedom and sugar. I gathered their juice boxes and apple slices onto a tray, then, on a new impulse that compelled me, I poured a tall glass of lemonade from the pitcher in my fridge.
For the man who was single-handedly renovating my entire porch. Purely practical. Common courtesy. Basic hospitality.
I stepped outside into the crisp autumn air and took a deep breath. The mountains looked painted today, all burnished goldsand deep russets against a piercing blue sky. The kind of day that made you believe the world might actually be beautiful.
Cole was removing a rotted section of railing, measuring a fresh piece of pale pine with focused precision. His flannel sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, revealing the corded muscles of his forearms as he worked, dusted with sawdust and fine dark hair. A faint sheen of sweat caught the sunlight.
I absolutely did not notice any of this. I was a professional educator.
"You're going to run out of things to fix," I said, approaching with the lemonade glass extended.
