“Are you asking this to help her?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“She’ll refuse, you know.” Gianna poured her coffee and turned to face me fully. “Sarah doesn’t accept help easily. She’ll see it as charity and push back.”
“I’m aware.”
“Just saying.” She took a sip of coffee, watching me over the rim of her mug. “It’s nice though. That you care.”
I left before she could say anything else that made me uncomfortable.
I tried to pay for the exam anyway.
Called the certification board, got the details, and arranged for payment. The woman on the phone was very helpful until I explained I was paying for someone else.
“We need the candidate’s authorization for that, sir.”
“I’m her employer.”
“That’s very generous, but our policy requires direct consent from the candidate for any third-party payments.”
I hung up and stared at my phone, trying to think of another approach. I could just give Sarah the money directly, but Gianna was right—she’d refuse. Could offer it as a bonus for her work with Lily, but she’d see through that immediately.
There had to be a way to help her without making it obvious I was helping her.
I was still thinking about it when Lily’s next session started.
I wasn’t planning to watch it this time. I had actual work to do—calls to make, but something pulled me to the monitor anyway.
Sarah was sitting on the floor with Lily, working through vocabulary exercises. Lily was engaged, responding well, clearly happy to have Sarah back. Everything looked normal.
Except Sarah kept staring out the window—disappearing into some place I couldn’t reach.
Not constantly. Just these brief moments where her attention would drift, her eyes would lose focus, and she’d disappear somewhere I couldn’t follow. Then she’d snap back, refocus on Lily, continue the session like nothing had happened.
It happened three times in twenty minutes.
The fourth time, Lily noticed.
I watched my daughter tilt her head, studying Sarah for a moment. Then Lily got up, walked to the art supplies, and came back with a single crayon.
She held it out to Sarah. “Drawing makes me feel better. Just like you taught me.”
Sarah stared at the crayon in Lily’s small hand. Her face shifted into something I couldn’t quite read—pain, guilt, fear all tangled together—from the monitor.
Then she stood abruptly.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I just… need a minute.”
She walked out of the room fast, her footsteps urgent. I heard the balcony door open and close.
Lily stood there holding the crayon, looking confused and hurt.
I was already moving.
I found Sarah on the balcony gripping the railing so hard her knuckles had gone white. Her shoulders shook—small, controlled tremors she was trying to suppress.
“Sarah.”
