The door is locked, and my hands are full—coffee cup, book bag, three binders, and a cotton-ball good-luck dragon the boys made me. Its head has fallen off, and the fire it was “breathing” has bled through the first page of binder two, leaving a splotchy trail of canary yellow and burnt orange as evidence.
Once inside, I pull back the curtains of my not-so-discreet-parking-lot-spying window, and the morning sun floods the space. Boxes and books are scattered everywhere, my new office chair is still in its box, andmy breast pump supplies have taken over my desk. But somehow, it’s cozy. And it’s mine.
A knock on the door comes as I pull the chair and its plastic wrapping out of its box.
“You’re early,” I say.
“I’m early because you’re early,” Ellie, my sister, says as she bumps the door open with her hip. “You know it’s 7 a.m., right?”
“I needed to be on time,” I say as I contort myself up and over the pieces of the chair and begin assembling.
“How was drop-off?” she asks, setting a cup of tea on my desk, completely missing the guilt-ridden flurry of emotions moving across my face at her question.
“It was fine,” I murmur, screwing a bolt into a leg.
“Are you sure?”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me, Miss Psychologist.”
“Mrs.,” she corrects.
“You know, for someone who was left at the altar before, you’re real confident about this one.” Another bolt attached.
“Seeing as we are past the altar now, she should be.” Benny, the reason for my sister’s newfound confidence, says as he strolls in wearing his bright blue Glendale polo and an even brighter smile. He reaches for my chair, likely to help assemble, but I swat him away. “Good morning, Principal Jones. How are you?”
“I’m fine.” I don’t look up, keeping my focus on a wheel that refuses to turn, though I can feel their eyes on me. I grunt and groan, fighting it as if sheer will could make it budge.
Benny, my new brother-in-law, and Glendale’s vice principal, gently pries the chair from my hands and guides me to the couch. Out of habit, probablybecause he wasmyboss last year, I do as he says.
“Why are we in a mood?” Ellie whispers, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear and rubbing my shoulder. “I thought today was supposed to be a happy day.”
It is, but the day has barely started. Who knows what could happen in a few hours. Or the next fifteen minutes. Nothing is guaranteed. I just know that when I left my baby with the nanny this morning, no one could have convinced me that today would be good, that being here, away from her, would be a good idea. But then I walked into the school, intomyoffice, and a small part of me flickered to life. A good day is possible.
“Are you overthinking?” Ellie asks.
“No. I’m not.” Nothing about my demeanor supports this statement.
“What are you thinking, then?”
I don’t respond. My shoulders suddenly weigh a thousand pounds, my mouth pulls downward, and my eyes sting with the threat of tears. A mix of emotions zaps through me, roiling my gut, simmering under my skin. Anger—irrational and uncalled for—is the strongest of the bunch.
Why do I have to get sad so easily? Why do I have to get angry?
Why does the thought of leaving my baby to go to work fill me with such guilt I would burn the world down to get to her? And why does my brain instantly feel better as soon as I have a quiet moment to myself? And why is thinking all these things giving me hot flashes?
“That is a clear sign of Emma Jones overthinking.” Ellie points at the hand I’m using to fan myself.
Sweat pools in places it shouldn’t, and I try to discreetly wipe it away with the underside of my shirt. The heat rises to my cheeks, and Ellie starts fanning me with binder one.
“I’m fine, really.” I shake my hands and any feelings ofun-finenessoff. “I’ve done this before.”
“Em, you didn’t leave the twins until they were nine months old. It’s okay, and kind of expected, to be wary of leaving afour-month-old.”
The hot flash quickly engulfs me from head to toe. Blazing red hot against my skin and scorching any sense of calm in the process. Desperation is suddenly all I feel as a quivering sob spews out of me.
“What if something happens to her?” I whimper pathetically. My pin-stripe button-up is practically drenched now. “What if I can’t get to her? What if Steven can’t get to her? What if I’m so worried about her I forget the twins?”
“You won’t forget the twins. Nothing will happen to her,” Ellie says, pulling me and my sweaty skin into the crook of her arm.
