Chapter one
Emma
Youcanbeanyoneyou want to be when you start a new job. It’s a fresh start or, for some, a redo. Your coworkers have no idea how neurotic you are or that you secretly color-code everything. They don’t know you’re the reason Secret Santa has a price limit or that every break room snack has to go through an approval process. They just know you from the fancy memo sent out from management.
The same could be said after having a baby.
That baby has no clue that you’re just flying by the seat of your pants. They’re blissfully unaware that you left the house with the oven on yesterday or that you kept them in their pajamas all day. They’re just eating, sleeping,vibing—while you’re peeing once a day and surviving on yesterday’s cold coffee. Like coworkers, they’re trusting you are who you say you are and nothing else.
Except for some, they have siblings.
And a chatty aunt who spills your deepest, darkest secrets.
And your “new job” is actually your old job with the same coworkers—one of them being your sister.
Postpartum is a wild thing. Brushing my hair feels like a fragile dance between maintenance and utter denial. I shouldn’t be doing it while driving. I shouldn’t be thinking about postpartum hair loss as I pull into the Glendale High parking lot. I shouldn’t be remembering, in vivid detail,how I took a pair of scissors to my hair last night and hacked it into an angled bob. I should be focused on my new job, my new responsibilities.
Principal of Glendale High School.
I step out of the car onto the black asphalt that hugs the building. Frigid January air slices at my ears as I fumble with the zipper on my coat. My heels click loudly against the pavement as I rush to the door, but before I can open it, my phone buzzes in my hand with an incoming call. My fingers are icy stiff as I silence it.
Then another buzz.
The text from my husband flashes like a warning across my screen.
Steven: Session is at 4 tomorrow?
I grit my teeth, deciding against the“same as every week”I want to justifiably shout through my phone. Instead, I type:
Yes, 4pm. Ellie will pick up the boys.
Steven: Have a good day. Love you.
Me: Love you too.
I rub at the ache blooming beneath my sternum. Our texts lately, really our conversations altogether, have been polite at best. Stripped of anything warm, playful, or marriage-esque. He should know it’s my first day at the new job. It’s plastered in big bold letters on our fridge. So the absence of a “good luck”or “you’re going to crush it”punches a small, hollow space in my chest.
I shove the feeling aside, chalk it up to Steven’s busy schedule saving lives, and barrel through the front double doors.
It doesn’t announce my arrival like I imagine. No gust of wind or dramatic swoosh. No stunned silence for the new leader’s arrival. Just the creak of old door bolts.
Which makes sense. It’s barely seven a.m. The only other soul here is Bill, the janitor.
“Mornin’, boss lady,” Bill says, wheeling out his cleaning cart. He won’t touch a mop or broom until later, but when it comes to inventory, he’srelentless, counting rolls of paper towels like it’s his solitary mission on this planet.
“Good morning, Bill. How are you this morning?”Did I really say morning twice?I clear my throat and ignore his lingering eyes—eyes that can see right through me.
Honestly, everyone can probably see right through me. I am in over my head taking on this new job, and it’s only my first day. I know this will be a disaster, and then I will have to quit, and then I will show my children what a quitter looks like before they even learn how to spellinadequate.
“Just fine,” he says. “My knee’s feeling strong today. I have therapy again tomorrow, but I might skip it. I don’t think I need it.”
“You need therapy, Bill.” I sigh then mumble under my breath, “We all do, apparently.” We have this conversation every Monday. At first, I thought it was just our pattern. We bicker back and forth, me telling him he needs physical therapy, him insisting I’m wrong, while deep down he enjoys the pestering. It’s clear he doesn’t want to go. Apparently, he runs this same conversation with five other people before his girlfriend, Margaret, finally drags him there. Every Tuesday at 9 a.m. Like clockwork.
Bill waves me off as I shuffle down the hallway to my office.
The principal’s office.
I have no idea when I’ll actually get used to it.
