All she had to do was get through today. One foot in front of the other. One task at a time.
She grabbed her bag and keys, locked the door behind her, and paused on the porch.
Everything looked the same. The street was quiet. The morning air was crisp. Nothing in the world had shifted except her.
She clutched her keys until the metal bit into her palm.
It’s fine,she told herself.You’re fine.
She took a slow breath and started to walk.
The school needed her. The kids needed her. And if she moved fast enough—if she stayed busy enough—if she didn’t sit still long enough to feel—maybe the hollow in her chest wouldn’t swallow her whole.
The second Gracestepped into her classroom, she felt her shoulders drop. Purpose was easier than pain. Purpose she could control.
The desks weren’t messy, but she straightened them anyway.
She flipped open her planner. Today’s lessons were ready. Tomorrow’s too. So she planned next week. Then the week after.
The door burst open as the first students tumbled in, coats half-on, half-off.
“Miss Hart! Miss Hart! Look at my show-and-tell!”
Grace turned, her smile perfectly in place. “Oh wow, is that a dinosaur fossil?”
Giggles erupted. The kids swarmed her. And for a moment—just a moment—Grace felt her lungs expand.
She loved them. She loved this room. There was no room left for sadness.
The morning moved in a blur.
“Miss Hart! Ava’s crying!”
Grace knelt immediately. “Oh sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
Ava sniffed, clutching a broken crayon. “It snapped.”
Grace gathered the little girl close. “Hey now. Broken doesn’t mean useless. Watch.”
She took the crayon, peeled the wrapper, split it cleanly into two new pieces.
“There,” Grace said gently. “Now you have double.”
Ava’s tears faded into a watery smile. “Magic.”
She solved arguments about markers. She tied shoelaces. She read a story with voices big enough to keep her own thoughts quiet.
Whenever a quiet moment tried to form—when the room fell into a rare hush—Grace found something, anything, to do.
“Miss Hart, do you want me to put the crayons away?” one student asked.
“I’ve got it,” she said quickly, reaching for the bin. “You go finish your drawing.”
She caught herself rearranging the same supply shelf three times before she forced herself to stop.
Her smile didn’t slip. Her voice didn’t shake.
No one noticed the way she pressed her hand to her sternum during silent reading time, like she was keeping something inside from spilling.
