Tuesday was worse. Sarah finished her assignment early. I saw her slide out of her chair. She took three steps toward my desk, paper in hand, that old instinct to share her work with me still intact.
Then she stopped.
I watched it happen in real time. The moment she remembered. The way her face shifted from open to closed, like a door swinging shut. She turned around, walked back to her seat, and put the paper in her folder without showing anyone.
I had to grip the edge of my desk to stay upright.
"You okay?" Linda Peters whispered from the reading corner, where she was helping a group with phonics.
"Fine," I managed. "Just a headache."
"You've had a lot of headaches lately."
"Must be the weather."
She didn't look convinced. I didn't blame her.
Wednesday afternoon, Maggie appeared at my classroom door with a casserole dish and an expression that said she wasn't leaving without answers.
"Broccoli and cheese," she announced, setting it on my desk. "You're going to eat it."
"Maggie, I'm fine?—"
"You're not fine. You look like death warmed over, rejected, and warmed over again." She studied my face with uncomfortable intensity. "When did you last sleep?"
"I sleep."
"Lying in bed staring at the ceiling doesn't count."
"Then never. The answer is never."
She sighed, pulling up a student chair and sitting down despite the absurd height difference it created. "Sarah asked me a question today."
My stomach dropped. "What question?"
"She caught me during break. Tugged on my sleeve, looked up at me with those big brown eyes." Maggie's voice softened. "She said, 'Ms. Maggie, why doesn't Ms. Reed like me anymore?'"
"I never—" My voice cracked. "I don't?—"
"I know." Maggie held up a hand. "I know you don't dislike her. I told her that of course, Ms. Reed likes her. Teachers just have a lot on their minds sometimes. But Emma, that's what a six-year-old sees. You went from being her safe person to a polite stranger in two weeks."
"I didn't mean to?—"
"Intent doesn't matter when you're six. Results matter. And the result is a little girl who thinks she did something wrong." Maggie leaned forward. "You're not protecting yourself, honey. You're punishing everyone. Including her. Including yourself."
She left the casserole and a hug I didn't deserve. The broccoli and cheese sat on my desk, slowly cooling, while her words echoed in the empty classroom.
You're punishing everyone.
That night, I lay awake until three. Maggie's accusation merged with Cole's from two weeks ago.You're creating the loss you're trying to prevent.
They were right. I'd known they were right. But knowing and feeling were different countries, and I'd been hiding in the wrong one.
Friday afternoon, the final bell rang. I gathered my things slowly, dreading the weekend, two days of empty silence stretching ahead like a desert.
I stepped into the hallway.
And there he was.
