"You deserve it." Linda squeezed my arm. "You really do. You've been running on fumes for years. It's nice to see you happy." She grinned. "It looks good on you."
She drifted back to her table, and I stood there with my coffee, letting the words sink in.
It looks good on you.
I caught my reflection in the microwave door. Same tired eyes. Same messy bun. Same face I'd been looking at for thirty years.
But Linda was right. Something was different.
I looked like someone who finally had something to look forward to.
Oral report day was always an adventure—for them and for me.
My students shuffled to the front of the class one by one, presenting their projects with varying degrees of enthusiasm and terror. Marcus mumbled his way through a presentation on dinosaurs, reading directly from his notecards and never looking up. James stumbled over his words but powered through a surprisingly thoughtful report on recycling.
Two girls did a joint presentation on Taylor Swift that technically didn’t meet the assignment requirements—but it was so passionate, I gave them full credit anyway.
Then Destiny stood up.
She was still wearing that hoodie with the broken zipper. The same one she'd worn every day this week. But something was different today. She stood straighter. Looked at the class instead of the floor.
“My project is on foster care,” she said. “On what happens to kids when they leave the system.”
The room went quiet. Even the fidgeters stopped fidgeting.
Destiny talked about statistics, how over twenty thousand kids aged out of the foster care system every year. How kids got bounced from home to home. How some foster families were good, and some weren’t—and there was no way to know which you’d get.
Her voice was steady, rehearsed, but I could hear the tremor underneath. This wasn't just research to her. This was her life, or the life she was afraid was coming.
She talked about what the system was supposed to do versus what it actually did. How kids got bounced from home to home. How some foster families were good, and some weren't, and there was no way to know which you'd get. How once you turned eighteen, you were on your own. No safety net. No second chances.
"A lot of people forget about them," Destiny said quietly. "After they age out. Like they just disappear."
The words hit me like a fist to the chest.
Tommy Vickers.
The memory came flooding back—sharp and sudden.
Ten years old, small for his age, flinching when adults moved too fast. The granola bars I kept in my desk for him, slipping them into his backpack when the other kids weren't looking. The way he started to trust me, just a little. The ghost of a smile when I told him his drawing was good.
Then, the bruises I saw at recess. The circular burns on his arms that he tried to hide under long sleeves. Cigarette burns.
I'll make sure you're okay, Tommy. I promise.
Destiny finished her report. The class applauded. I applauded too, my hands moving automatically, my mind nine years in the past.
"That was wonderful, Destiny," I heard myself say. "Really excellent work."
She ducked her head, almost smiling, and returned to her seat.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Fractions. Reading groups. The usual chaos of dismissal.
As the other students flooded out, I caught Destiny before she could disappear.
"Hey." I kept my voice casual. "Can you hang back for a second?"
She froze, shoulders going tight. "Did I do something wrong?"
