The first week of space had been almost manageable. I'd thrown myself into work with the desperate energy of someone fleeing a crime scene. Lesson plans for the next month? Done. Classroom library reorganized by genre, reading level, and spine color? Accomplished. Supply closet inventory? Completed twice, just to be thorough.
"You're here early again," Janet from the front office observed on Wednesday.
"Couldn't sleep," I said. "Thought I'd get ahead on things."
"Emma, it's not even seven yet."
"Like I said last week, I'm very dedicated."
"You're very something."
By Thursday, I'd run out of things to organize. The classroom was immaculate. My lesson plans extended into next semester. I'd alphabetized my personal library at home and color-coded my closet.
"What are you still doing here?" Mr. Peters, the janitor, asked at seven-thirty that evening, his mop paused mid-stroke.
"Just finishing up some grading."
He glanced at my empty desk. "With what papers?"
"Future papers. Preemptive grading."
He gave me the look—the one that said he'd seen a lot of strange behavior in thirty years of janitorial work, but this was ranking high on the list.
"Go home, Ms. Reed."
"I will. Soon."
"That's what you said yesterday."
I went home. The cabin was waiting, silent and sterile, scrubbed clean of any evidence that people I loved had ever filled it with noise and warmth.
Friday night, I opened the freezer looking for something to microwave. The shelf where Cole and Sarah's labeled containers had lived was empty. I'd eaten the last one, "Veggie Stuff" in Sarah's careful handwriting, six days ago, without even tasting it.
"Veggie Stuff," I whispered to the empty shelf. "She couldn't spell 'ratatouille.'"
The containers hadn't just been food. They'd been love, measured out in portions, labeled with a six-year-old's earnest penmanship. Evidence of a family I'd dismantled with my own hands.
I closed the freezer door. The thump echoed through the empty kitchen.
"Congratulations, Emma," I said to no one. "Flawless execution of total self-destruction. Really masterful work."
At school, Sarah was unavoidable. I saw her every day; in the hallway, at her desk, lining up for lunch. I maintained professional distance, offering bright, empty greetings that invited nothing.
"Good morning, Sarah!"
"Morning, Ms. Reed."
No "Emma." Not anymore. The name I'd given her permission to use, now locked away behind formal titles and careful distance.
Monday of the second week, I was explaining fractions when I saw her hand start to rise. My heart leaped. She was engaging, participating, maybe things were?—
Her hand stopped halfway up. She glanced at me, something flickering in her brown eyes. Then she lowered it, folding both hands on her desk, staring at her worksheet.
"Sarah?" I called gently. "Did you have a question?"
"No, Ms. Reed." Flat. Final.
The moment passed. The lesson continued. But I felt the loss like a physical wound.
