“You can’t keep your entire life in your head,” Maggie says, tapping the colorful planner in front of me. “That’s how women snap and end up screaming at strangers in grocery store parking lots.”
I’m sitting in the office at the shop with Maggie, surrounded by stacks of paper, notebooks, my laptop, a new planner, and giant wall calendar Maggie insists I need.
“That’s never been something I’ve struggled with,” I say with a laugh. “What are you talking about?”
Maggie shrugs. “That happens sometimes.”
“Maggie.” I snort laugh. “What the heck?”
“Structure, Poppy. Structure keeps us out of jail,” she says.
I laugh again and shake my head. “Didn’t realize these schedules were that critical.”
She slides a printed, color-coded schedule across the desk. Of course it is. I’d expect nothing less from Maggie. She’s asorganized as all get out, and she loves a good project. And today, apparently,I’mher project.
“This is your shop schedule,” she says. “This is the school schedule. This is the Owen schedule. And this”—she taps the last page—“is the Maggie makes sure you eat schedule.”
“I eat,” I protest.
She gives me a look. “You drink coffee and survive on dry toast and whatever you can find. That doesn’t count.”
I laugh, because it’s that or cry. Probably both if I’m being honest.
Maggie sits across from me at the table, planner open, pen tapping thoughtfully as she starts blocking out my days like this is the most natural thing in the world. She doesn’t just pencil in work and appointments. She adds reminders to eat. Actual meals. Lunch. Dinner. She even circles one and writessit downto eatnext to it.
Something tight lodges in my throat.
I’m not used to this. To someone seeing how much I’m carrying and quietly stepping in instead of telling me I’ll figure it out. I’ve been holding everything together for so long that letting someone else help feels foreign. Heavy. Almost too much.
She tells me she set up a meal train for next week so I can focus on transitioning into the new job and packing up the house. Says it like it’s no big deal. Like feeding me and Owen is just another box to check.
I blink hard and stare at the planner, so she doesn’t see how close I am to crying.
“Thank you,” I manage, even though it feels wildly insufficient.
It’s going to be a busy time. Overwhelming. Packing, moving, starting something new. I’m dreading the logistics of it all, the chaos and the unknowns.
But underneath that is something brighter. Lighter.
For the first time in a long while, I’m not doing this alone. And that might be the most exciting part of all.
“I still can’t believe I start Monday,” I murmur.
“You’re gonna be amazing,” Maggie says immediately. “Those kids are lucky to have you. And frankly, this town needs more women who don’t apologize for knowing their shit.”
“I want to help every kid who wants to learn,” I say. “This is a dream.”
“Yes, well,” she says, waving a hand, “we’re the lucky ones to have you.”
Through the doorway, I can see Mack leaning over Maggie’s truck, holding a wrench like she was born with it.
Mack is Walker and Violet’s seventeen-year-old. She’s a junior in high school and had never been interested in auto class until Maggie told her I would be teaching it. In the words of Maggie, “No crusty dusty boy is going to try to impress Mack with car repairs. Mack can do it herself.” And she can. I’ll make sure of that. I’ll make sure everyone knows the basics. It’s important life skills.
“Do I turn this left or right?” Mack calls.
“Lefty loosey,” I yell back. “Righty tighty. Words to live by.”
Mack grins and twists the wrench. “I love this. I can’t wait for auto class.”
