I wasn’t sure what to expect, so when Steven asked me what I had planned today, I didn’t tell him. Instead, I dropped the boys off and drove to the high school nestled in the middle of town.
Glendale is twenty minutes from the hospital, but I’ve never even been down the street it sits on, always passing it as I come and go to the little shops down the block, never once looking in its direction.
The red knight mascot stares at me from the side of the building as I walk inside. The checkered floors and red lockers are inviting, and the banner that hangs overhead in the foyer shouts for celebration for the volleyball state champions. Something tugs at my chest unexpectedly as I soak it all in, like this place might have a purpose for me.
The thought makes me shudder.Don’t be ridiculous, Emma. You’re a mom, not some art guru called in to inspire young minds.
“Mrs. Jones!”
Bayani Divata strides toward me from the end of the hallway. His smile is wide and infectious, and his eyes crinkle in that rare, genuinely happy sort of way. It softens me, the sight of something I haven’t seen in a while, disarming me enough that I actually smile back.
“Mr. Divata, hello.” I shake his outstretched hand, and he gestures for me to follow.
“Oh, please, call me Benny.” He leads me into a big room with a floor-to-ceiling window. Sunlight spills across the space, glinting off a refrigerator in the corner and two large tables.
“Please, have a seat.” He gestures to the table closest to the window, but instead of sitting, he walks to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of coffee creamer. I sit and watch as he pours two cups of coffee. One mug is black with the knight logo. The other is pink with a pug in the center.
He hands me the black one and sips from his pink pug mug. I can’t help but laugh.
“What is that?”
“This is Harriet.” He twists the mug so the pug faces me. “She was a good little niece.”
I snort at this. Surely he’s being facetious, but he doesn’t elaborate, getting straight to business.
“So, Mrs. Jones—”
“Emma,” I correct.
“Emma…tell me about yourself.”
“Oh…umm…” My teeth catch my lip, suddenly very aware that I’m being interviewed. This isn’t something I foresaw for myself even just a few months ago. What does a mom who hasn’t worked in five years have to say about herself?
“Surely there’s something,” he encourages, confirming I definitely said that last part out loud.
“Well…I graduated with honors, and I was a finalist in the Eastland Art Majors with my thesis project. Most of my work was with paint, but I can learn different media pretty easily. My style was considered…uniquely traditional.” I air quote and reach for my phone. “I can show you—”
“That’s not necessary. I know you’re good at art, and you taught me how to draw a flower that didn’t look like a dissected letter, so I know you’re good at teaching.”
“Thank you.” My cheeks warm at the compliment.
“I want to know aboutyou.” His brown eyes dazzle at me as he props his chin on his knuckles.
“Umm…I’m married…” He nods, though his gaze flicks to my bare ring finger. “I’m a mom,” I continue. “I’m a big fan of Pilates when I can make a class. I love a good spreadsheet and organized binder.”
“How many?” he asks casually.
I stammer, not remembering the last time I counted. “Maybe ten right now, but some are shoved in a box somewhere—”
“I meant kids.” He chuckles. “At least I hope you don’t have children shoved in a box somewhere.”
A mortified laugh escapes me, and I shift in my seat.
“So how many kids?” he repeats.
My hand moves instinctively to my stomach, searching for something that isn’t there, and a sharp, visceral ache pulses through me.
A flush of heat envelopes around me, and nausea swirls its way up my throat. I clear it. Once. Twice. A third time, before finally being able to answer.
