She extended her hand. I contemplated before taking it, my rough palm swallowing her smaller one completely. Her grip was firm, confident, not the limp handshake I'd expected. There was glitter on her wrist and a smudge of purple marker on her thumb. Working hands, I thought. Hands that did things.
"Sarah talks about you all the time," Ms. Reed said with a warm smile. "The bees, especially. She's very proud of your honey."
Warmth spread across my chest, and I could feel a faint smile forming on my lips. "She's a good helper."
"The best helper," Sarah corrected, still beaming.
"The best," I agreed, my heart swelling with pride.
Ms. Reed laughed—a real laugh, surprised and warm, like she hadn't expected to make the sound. Something within me shifted at that laugh. "Well," She smiled down at Sarah. "Your seat is right by the window, Sarah. All set up and ready for you two."
"Come on, Uncle C!" Sarah grabbed my hand and pulled with surprising strength.
I followed, navigating between tiny chairs and even tinier humans with the care of a man crossing a minefield blindfolded. Every step felt like a potential catastrophe. I was too big for this room, too rough for these people, too much of everything for this pastel nightmare of construction paper and good intentions.
"Sit here, Uncle Cole." Sarah pointed to a chair that looked like it belonged in a dollhouse. Or a cruel joke. Ms. Reed had offered me the seat when she showed us Sarah’s desk, but it looked so little and fragile, I declined.
"I'll stand." I insisted.
"You have to sit. Everyone's sitting. It's the rules." Saying no to Sarah was going to be tougher than saying no to her teacher.
"There are rules about sitting?"
"There's rules for everything." She gave me a look that suggested I should know this by now.
I glanced around. She was right. Every adult in the room had folded themselves into child-sized furniture, their knees jutting at absurd angles, their dignity quietly surrendering. A man at thenext table, regular-sized, wearing khakis and a polo shirt like a uniform, caught my eye and shrugged in weary solidarity.
"Welcome to the thunder dome," he said dryly. "I'm Steve. This is my third one of these. It doesn't get easier."
"Feels like it." I lowered myself into the chair with extreme caution. Something creaked ominously beneath me. I held very, very still, waiting for collapse.
"Don't worry," Steve said. "They're sturdier than they look. Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"I've only seen one break. My butt healed… eventually."
At least one of us kept a sense of humor. I decided not to ask any further.
"Okay, everyone!" Ms. Reed clapped her hands twice, commanding the room with easy authority. The chatter died down instantly. "Today we're making flower bouquets or beautiful cards, or anything you feel inspired to do for someone special. You'll find paper, scissors, and glue at your tables. Get creative, have fun, and remember, there are no mistakes in art, only happy accidents!"
"What's a happy accident?" a boy at the next table asked, his hand shooting up after he'd already spoken.
"It's when something doesn't go as planned, but it turns out beautiful anyway," Ms. Reed explained patiently. "Like when you mix colors and get a new one you didn't expect. Or when you cut something crooked and it looks even better than if it were straight."
"My mom says I was a happy accident," the boy announced proudly.
The room went dead silent. His mother turned approximately seventeen shades of crimson. Steve snorted into his hand. I felt my own mouth twitch into a grin despite myself.
Ms. Reed didn't miss a beat. Her tender smile didn't waver.
"Well, that just means you're an extra special surprise, doesn't it? The best kinds of things in life are the ones we didn't plan for." She gestured broadly. "Now, let's get crafting, everyone! Creativity awaits!"
The moment broke into laughter and relieved chatter. I watched Ms. Reed move through the chaos with something like awe. She was calming a frustrated kid here, complimenting a mother's effort there, producing extra supplies from seemingly nowhere. She created warmth and safety without appearing to try. It was a kind of magic, an effortless competence. The exact opposite of everything I knew how to do.
"Uncle C.?" Sarah tugged my sleeve. "We have to be fast. Everyone's already working."
Right. The craft. I stared at the materials spread before us like instruments of torture: construction paper in violent shades of pink and red, safety scissors designed for hands a third the size of mine, glue sticks and, God help me here, sequins. Loose sequins. Who thought loose sequins were a good idea?
