"It's—" I started, and my voice sounded strange. I cleared my throat. "It's wonderful to meet you. I'm Emma Reed, Sarah’s teacher."
I extended my hand. He looked at it for a moment, as if he was a deer stuck in headlights, then engulfed it in his.
His palm was rough with calluses, warm and solid. Mine was covered in glitter. We were both, I suspected, out of our depth.
"Ma'am," he said. His voice was low, a quiet rumble that I felt somewhere inside my body.
One word. That was all I got.Ma'am.
"Sarah talks about you all the time," I managed. "The bees, especially. She's very proud of your honey."
Something flickered in those blue eyes. Could’ve been surprise, maybe, or a hint of warmth, but it vanished before I could name it. "She's a good helper."
"The best helper," Sarah corrected, still beaming.
"The best," he agreed, and his voice softened almost imperceptibly.
I realized I was still holding his hand. I dropped it, heat creeping up my neck.
Professional, Emma. You're a professional.
"Well." I clasped my hands together, teacher-mode snapping back into place. "Your seat is right by the window, Sarah. All set up and ready for you two."
"Come on, Uncle C!" Sarah grabbed his hand; her small fingers were barely wrapping around two of his, and she pulled him toward her desk.
He followed with the stiff caution of a man navigating a minefield. Each step was careful, as if he might accidentally crush something underfoot. When they reached the desk, he pulled out Sarah's tiny chair for her with surprising gentleness, then stood behind it, adrift.
He tried his best not to stand out, even going as far as casually hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. It would’ve helped if not for the fact that his broad shoulders blocked the entire window, casting the desk in shadow.
"Mr. Brennan?" I approached, keeping my voice light. "There's a chair for grown-ups against the wall if you'd like to sit."
He glanced at the plastic chair I'd indicated. It was adult-sized, technically, but it still looked comically small next to him. "I'm fine standing."
"You sure? It's going to be a while. Lots of gluing. Some glitter. Possibly tears, but usually the happy kind."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "I'll manage."
"Suit yourself. But the offer stands." I turned to Sarah, settling into the familiar rhythm. "Okay, Sarah. What's your vision? Hearts? Flowers? A masterpiece that will make your uncle cry?"
"Uncle C. doesn't cry," Sarah said like she was stating a known fact.
"Everyone cries at Mother's Day crafts. It's science."
Behind me, I heard a low sound that might have been a laugh, quickly suppressed.
I moved away to help another student, but my awareness stayed fixed on that corner of the room. I watched Cole attempt to fold his large frame into the task at hand, picking up safety scissors that looked absurd in his grip. He tried to cut a paper flower. The scissors slipped. He tried again, brow furrowed in concentration.
"Not like that, Uncle C," Sarah said patiently. "You have to hold them right."
"I am holding them right."
"No, look—" She repositioned his fingers, her small hands guiding his. "Likethis."
He tried again. The paper tore, and his shoulders tensed up.
"Sorry," he muttered, so quietly I almost missed it.
I thought of Sarah's poster.Uncle C. and my bees.No mother listed. No father. Just an uncle who was trying so hard to cut a paper flower with hands that were built for harder, rougher work.
