"Jon said he's bringing a surprise." Her eyes go wide. "Do you know what it is? Is it a puppy? I asked for a puppy. Mom said no, but Jon doesn't always listen to Mom."
"Jon definitely listens to your mom." I crouch down to her level. "And I don't know what the surprise is. He wouldn't tell me."
This is a lie. I know exactly what the surprise is. But some secrets are worth keeping.
"Okay, munchkin." Sera swoops in, scoops Rosie up. "Say goodbye to Miss Evie. We'll see her at the party."
"Bye, Miss Evie!" Rosie waves over her mother's shoulder as Sera carries her toward the door. "Don't be late. The cake is chocolate.”
"I wouldn't miss it."
They disappear down the hallway, Rosie's chatter fading into the general hum of the building. I turn back to my classroom, where Marcus is now explaining to another child that sharing crayons is "actually really important, okay?"
The Guardian HRS daycare center opened six months ago. Skye's idea—she saw how many operatives had kids, how hard it was to balance missions with childcare, and she made it happen. When they offered me the director position, I laughed. When they showed me the facility—purpose-built, fully funded, staffed by people who understood that the parents dropping off these children might not come home—I cried.
It's not a kindergarten classroom. It's something better. Something that matters in a different way.
My phone buzzes. A text from Jon:Leaving now. Don't let them start without me.
I smile and type back:Wouldn't dream of it.
The party is in full swing by the time I arrive.
Sera's backyard has been transformed into a butterfly-themed wonderland—Rosie's choice, a callback to the backpack that saw her through the worst day of her life. Paper butterflies hang from the trees. The tablecloths are purple and pink. Even the cake is shaped like a butterfly, its wings spread wide, frosted in colors that probably don't exist in nature.
"Aunt Evie.” Rosie spots me from across the yard and comes running, party dress streaming behind her. "You came.”
"Of course I came." I catch her, swing her around. "I told you I wouldn't miss it."
"Jon's not here yet." Her lower lip threatens a pout. "He promised he'd be here."
"He'll be here. He's never broken a promise to you, has he?"
She considers this with the gravity of a Supreme Court justice. "No. He hasn't."
"Then trust him."
"Okay." The pout disappears, replaced by a megawatt smile. "Come see my presents.”
She drags me toward a table piled with wrapped boxes, chattering about which ones she thinks are books and which ones might be toys. I'm only half-listening, because a familiar truck has just pulled into the driveway, and the man stepping out of it makes my heart do the same stupid flip it's been doing for a year.
Jon crosses the yard in easy strides. He's carrying something behind his back—poorly hidden, too big for his hands—and his grin is the one I've come to know as his "I have a secret" grin.
"Sorry I'm late, birthday girl." He crouches down to Rosie's level. "Traffic was terrible."
"You're always late." But she's beaming at him, all forgiveness. "What's behind your back?"
"Who says anything's behind my back?"
"Jon." She puts her hands on her hips, a perfect miniature of her mother. "I can SEE it."
"Oh, this?" He pulls out the bouquet—sunflowers, bright and cheerful, wrapped in purple ribbon to match the party theme. "These are for you. Because your Aunt Evie told me that's what friends who are boys are supposed to bring girls for their birthday.”
Rosie's eyes go wide. "For ME?"
"For you. Happy birthday, sweetheart."
She takes the flowers with the reverence usually reserved for holy relics. For a moment, I think she might actually cry. Then she throws her arms around Jon's neck, bouquet and all, and squeezes.
