My kids are bent over their afternoon assignment, pencils scratching against paper, with the occasional whispered question passing between desk neighbors. I usually love this part of the day, but today I’m counting down the minutes until the bell rings and I can stop performing normalcy for a little while.
It’s been almost a week since I told Theo we needed space, and I’ve been teaching on autopilot ever since. Going through the motions of lesson plans and grading and parent emails while my brain loops endlessly through the same questions. Did I make a mistake? Am I being noble or just scared? Does Theo hate me now?
Sophie’s been texting constantly, worried, offering to come over with wine and ice cream, but I keep putting her off.
My eyes drift to Chloe, the way they’ve been drifting all week no matter how hard I try to treat her like any other student.
She’s in the second row, completely absorbed in her math worksheet. She’s wearing the purple sweater she told me was her favorite because it has a secret pocket for keeping treasures—currently holding a smooth gray stone she found on the playground and a friendship bracelet Lily made her.
She has no idea that anything is wrong. No idea that her dad and her teacher are in the middle of something painful and confusing. Theo told her I’ve been busy with work stuff, which is technically true if you count crying into my pillow as work.
God, I miss them. Both of them. The ache of it sits in my chest, something I have to carry around all day while pretending everything is fine.
The bell rings, sharp and sudden, and the room erupts into the familiar chaos of end-of-day energy. Chairs scrape against the floor, backpacks are grabbed from cubbies, voices rise in excited chatter about afternoon plans and playdates. I move on muscle memory, calling out reminders about homework folders and library books, waving goodbye to kids as they stream toward the door where parents and caregivers wait in the hallway.
“Remember, chapter three for reading tonight! And don’t forget your permission slips for the field trip!”
The responses are a jumbled chorus of “Bye, Miss Hayes!” and “See you tomorrow!” and one enthusiastic “I love you, Miss Hayes!” from Henry, who says that to every adult he likes and means it completely every single time.
I’m smiling, waving, playing the part of the cheerful teacher while something inside me feels like it’s slowly crumbling. Most of the kids have filtered out when I feel a small tug on my sleeve.
“Miss Hayes?”
I look down to find Chloe gazing up at me with brown eyes that are so much like her father’s it hurts. She’s got her backpack on and her pink lunchbox clutched in both hands.
“Hey, sweetheart.” I crouch down to her level, bringing myself eye to eye with this little girl I love so much it terrifies me. “What’s up?”
“When are you coming over again?” She asks. “Daddy saidyou’ve been busy with work stuff, but I miss movie nights and board games.”
The earnestness in her voice nearly undoes me.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately,” I tell her. “Being a teacher is a lot of work. Lots of lessons to plan. Lots of papers to grade.” I give her a mock-serious look. “Including yours, missy. That math worksheet better be your best work.”
She giggles, and the sound is like sunlight breaking through clouds. “It is! I double-checked all my answers.”
I smile. “You know what, Chloe? No matter how busy I get, I love you. That’s not going to change, okay? And we will do a movie night soon. I promise.”
Maybe it’s wrong to promise that when I’m so uncertain about everything. When I don’t know what the future holds or whether I’ll still be part of their lives next month. Maybe I’m being selfish, giving her hope I’m not sure I can deliver on.
But looking at Chloe’s hopeful face, I can’t say anything else.
“Okay!” She beams at me, that gap-toothed smile that always makes my heart squeeze. “Good luck with all your teacher stuff, Miss Hayes! I hope you finish it super fast so that you can come back over!”
And then she’s running out the door, braids bouncing, backpack thumping against her small shoulders, gone before I can say anything else. The last few students follow in her wake, a flurry of goodbyes and waves and promises to remember their homework, and then they’re all gone too.
The sounds of kids running through the hallway and teachers calling out reminders and parents chatting by the cubbies echo through the open door as I stand alone in my empty classroom, feeling hollowed out and stupid and desperately alone.
Saturday morning and the gray highway of I-5 toward Seattle unspools ahead of me, wet from last night’s rain, and I watch the mile markers tick by without really seeing them.
Last night in my apartment was unbearable. Over the past few months I’ve gotten used to Theo’s house, to the sounds of Chloe playing in the other room and Theo cooking something that smells incredible and the three of us existing together in comfortable chaos.
I’ve gotten used to falling asleep next to him, to waking up with his arm heavy across my waist, to lazy Sunday mornings where we make pancakes and Chloe insists on adding extra chocolate chips. My apartment felt like a tomb after all that. Cold and quiet and full of my own thoughts, which are not great company right now.
I couldn’t take another day stuck there with nothing but my spiral for company, so I texted Sophie late last night asking if I could come up for the weekend. She responded immediately with a yes and a string of concerned emojis and a demand to know if I needed her to drive down instead. But I need to get out of Dark River for a bit, so here I am, an hour into the drive, trying not to think about anything at all. It’s not working, but at least the scenery is changing.
It’s late morning by the time I make it into the city. Sophie’s apartment is in Queen Anne, one of those beautiful old buildings with high ceilings and crown molding and views of the water that justify the astronomical rent she pays. She’s always loved living in Seattle, and thrives on the energy and the restaurants and the constant activity, the way there’s always something happening and somewhere to be. I’m the opposite. I wanted the small town and the hiking trails and not having to lock my door or carry pepper spray when I go for a run.
I climb the stairs to her floor, my overnight bag bumping against my hip, and Sophie opens her apartment door before I even knock. She takes one look at my face and pulls me into a hug that lasts longer than our usual greetings.
