“Next month. I’ve been studying but I should probably ramp it up.”
“You’ll pass. You’re the smartest person I know.”
“That’s not true.”
“Fine, second smartest. But only because my thesis advisor is literally a genius.” He grinned. “Either way, you’ve got this.”
I wanted to believe him, but wanting and believing had never been the same thing.
I took the certification exam on a rainy morning in a grey building that smelled like floor polish and anxiety.
Three hours of questions that blurred together—developmental milestones, treatment approaches, ethics scenarios—all of it a fog I hoped I’d navigated correctly. I walked out feeling like I’d either aced it or failed spectacularly with no middle ground.
The results came two weeks later via email while I was eating cereal in my underwear at noon.
I passed.
I stared at the screen for a full minute, rereading the words to make sure they were real. Then I called Colin and he screamed so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear.
“I knew it! I told you! You’re officially fancy now!”
“I don’t feel fancy.”
“Well you should. This is huge. We’re celebrating. I’m taking you to the pub.”
“It’s two in the afternoon.”
“So? You just became a certified speech therapist. That’s day-drinking worthy.”
We went to the pub. Colin bought me fish and chips and a beer I didn’t finish, and for a few hours I let myself feel proud instead of hollow.
The clinic was in Camden, sandwiched between a vintage clothing shop and a place that sold only tea—the kind of London detail that would’ve made Delia laugh.
I started the following Monday working with kids aged four to ten, most of them dealing with articulation disorders or stutters or selective mutism like Lily had. The work was good—challenging but rewarding, exactly what I’d always wanted.
Except everything reminded me of her.
A little girl with dark braids who loved to draw. A boy who went silent when he got overwhelmed. A parent asking if their daughter would ever speak normally again, and me having to explain that normal was relative but yes, with time and patience, she’d find her voice.
I thought about Lily constantly. Wondered if she was still dancing, still laughing, still using those full sentences she’d worked so hard to build. Wondered if she asked about me or if Hector had explained why I’d disappeared.
Wondered if she hated me too—and whether she should.
My phone rang one night. Gianna’s name flashed across the screen and my heart stopped.
“Sarah?” Gianna’s voice sounded hesitant. “Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Oh thank god. I wasn’t sure you’d answer.” She paused. “What happened? One day you were working here and the next you were just gone. Mr. Valdez won’t talk about it and Lily’s been—” She stopped. “Lily keeps asking for you.”
My eyes started burning. “Is she okay?”
“She’s okay. Physically. But she’s sad, Sarah. She doesn’t understand why you left.”
“What did Hector tell her?”
“That you had to move away for work. That it wasn’t her fault.” Another pause. “Was it about what happened at the ballet studio? Because Mr. Valdez has been different since you left. Quieter. Angry at things that don’t make sense.”
