He smiled, small and certain. “That’s what Mom says.”
“She’s right,” I said softly. “She usually is.”
We fell into easy silence, the kind that didn’t need filling.
When we pulled into the school drop-off line, Leo pressed his face to the window, narrating everything he saw: the kids, the crossing guard, a dog that looked like a toasted marshmallow.
That’s when I saw her.
A woman in the next car up, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other reaching back to squeeze her daughter’s hand. I recognized her from rehearsal the night before. There was something about the curve of her smile, tired, tender, fierce.
She looked like she’d been through a storm and was still standing, still protecting everyone in her orbit.
I didn’t know much about her, but I wanted to.
Cars inched forward, and she drove off before I could even catch her license plate.
Leo started humming again, oblivious to the way my heart had just shifted gears entirely.
“Dad?” he asked. “You’re smiling weird.”
"Here we are," I said, waiting for him to get out, but he just looked at me. "What?"
He squinted before she shrugged and said goodbye and bounded out the door, bookbag dragging behind him.
After dropping him off, I made my way into work. I pulled up to city hall and got my badge out of the glove box. Working IT for the city, even one as small as Briar Glen, was a good job. I only had to be in the office a few days a week, and it had good benefits. It had been a blessing when we were getting Leo's diagnosis, but once we'd had that and had gotten him the right support, he was thriving.
Becca and Mel were thriving.
It's not that I wasn't thriving. I was fine, happy even most days, but sometimes it still felt like something was missing. I love the community we'd built around us, from the Grimm Reapers to the Penguins, but sometimes I found myself wishing for a person. My person. The person who was there when everything was quiet.
“Morning, Alex!”
Marcy from Records leaned over the counter with her usual bright smile, a stack of folders in one hand and a mug that saidI’d rather be scrapbookingin the other.
“Morning, Marcy,” I said, balancing my coffee and laptop bag. “How’s the system treating you today?”
She groaned dramatically. “Like it woke up on the wrong side of the firewall.”
I chuckled. “That bad, huh?”
“I tried to print the new zoning forms, and it decided I needed fifty-seven copies of page one and none of page two.”
“That’s a bold choice,” I said, setting down my bag. “But I admire its confidence.”
She snorted. “Can you work your magic?”
“I prefer to call itcompetence,but sure,” I said, crouching to check the printer settings. “You’d be amazed how many problems in life come down to someone accidentally clicking collate.’”
“Don’t tell me that, it ruins the illusion that you’re a tech wizard.”
I grinned up at her. “Nah, I’m just the guy who talks nicely to cranky machines.”
A minute later, the printer whirred to life and spat out a perfect, single copy of page two.
Marcy clapped. “You did it again. Seriously, if IT ever runs for office, you’ve got my vote.”
“I’ll put that on my campaign poster,” I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “‘Alex Prince: Making Your Printers Behave Since 2018.’”
