Dinner ended on a pleasant note. Julian insisted on seeing me home. We took a cab to my building; he held the door open and watched until I was safely inside.
One week later,when the plane touched down at JFK, my heart was hammering so hard I thought it might burst out of my chest. Six years. I was finally back.
Rosewood Academy was in the Upper East Side, surrounded by luxury apartment buildings. The students came from serious money—parents dropping them off in Porsche Cayennes. The school treated its faculty well and had already arranged an apartment for me in the city. I began preparing for my new position.
On my first day, I arrived half an hour early.
February in New York: warm sunlight poured across the campus, though the air remained cold. Dressed in the teacher's uniform and wrapped in my coat, I walked among the school's stately, classic buildings,looking up and admiring the unmistakable aura of old money and tradition.
As I reached the playground, perfectly manicured lawns came into view. Children in immaculate uniforms ran and laughed, their voices filling the air. The tension I'd been carrying since arriving in this new environment eased a little. I loved children. Watching them, I couldn't help imagining whether my Olei had grown up just as healthy and lively.
Then a burst of mocking laughter caught my ear.
"Freak with no mother! Come on, everyone—push him down!"
The childish voices were shrill, laced with that peculiar, innocent cruelty only children can wield. My heart clenched. I hurried toward the sound.
In the corner of the playground, near the climbing frame, a group of sturdy boys had surrounded another child and were taking turns shoving him.
"Your mom didn't want you! Nobody loves you!" The leader—a stocky boy—shoved hard.
"I do have a mom!" The boy stumbled, fell, but immediately pushed himself up and snarled back, fierce as a cornered animal. "I have a mom!"
He lifted his head and glared at his tormentors.
My feet froze to the ground.
God.
The boy looked almost exactly like me.
He was still so young, yet those amber eyes burned with a defiance far beyond his years. His small face was tight with tension; dark-brown hair fell messily across his forehead, half hiding a flash of vulnerability.
In that single instant, I knew.
This was Olei. This was my child.
Chapter Nine
Anthea
"What are you doing?" I snapped, stopping them in their tracks. "Why do you treat a classmate like that? Why attack someone with that kind of vicious language?"
The boys jumped, turning to stare at me.
"Who... who are you?" one of them stammered.
I walked over and pulled Olei to his feet, stepping between them. "I'm your teacher. So, bullying a classmate—you think that's fun?"
"We just said a few things to him. He never wants to play with us anyway," the chubby boy mumbled defensively.
"Mocking a classmate for not having a mother—do you have any idea how much that hurts?" I lowered my voice, my eyes sweeping across each young face. "And whether or not he wants to play with you is his choice. You don't get to bully him over it."
The boys exchanged glances. Some lowered their heads.
"Apologize to him. Now." I stared down the little troublemakers until they squirmed.
A few muttered reluctant "sorry"s before scattering.
