“Um, Dolly,” I say while gently trying to tug her away.
My effort only causes her to tighten her hold. “No,” shecries.
Claire joins the effort, carefully helping me untangle her hands.
A tear slips from Bea’s eye, and I’ve suddenly lost all control. Is there a fucking parenting podcast for a situation like this? Too damn late to listen now.
“Why can’t you come?” Bea inspects Claire, wearing the most pitiful look. “Can’t you pack later?”
Sheesh. Whoever her teacher is, this girl is gonna give them a run for their money.
“I’m sure Claire has other?—”
“You don’t want to meet my teacher?” Bea drags the back of her hand over her cheek, wiping away the lonesome tear.
“Of course I do,” Claire answers. “It’s not that. It’s just…” She sighs, looking to me for help.
Fuck it.
“She’ll come,” I say, putting both girls out of their misery.
“Really? Yay.” Bea jumps up and down then throws herself into my arms.
I give Claire a sheepish shrug. The smirk she returns saysyour daughter has you wrapped around her little finger. What can I say? Despite her poor sportsmanship when playing Uno, she’s a deeply feeling kid with a big heart.
“Let me change really quick, and I’ll meet you in the car. Give me ten minutes,” Claire says, turning and striding toward her bedroom.
Nine minutes later, she’s climbing into the passenger seat.
“Color me impressed,” I declare, shifting into reverse. “She’s actually early.”
“Ha ha,” she deadpans.
“I like your dress,” Bea says from the back seat. “It matches my tutu.”
Claire’s bangs are pulled back with a clip, but her hair isdown and naturally wavy, and she’s wearing a light yellow sundress with purple flowers in varying shades printed all over it.
“It does. Both of my”—I clear my throat, a sharp pain lancing my chest— “Both of you girls look beautiful.”
Claire and Bea talk the entire twenty-minute drive to the school, though it’s mostly Bea bouncing from topic to topic about what she thinks “big kid school” will be like. She’s elated and has been for days, but the second we set foot into the building and are directed toward her classroom, she clams up and clutches Claire’s hand like a lifeline.
Fuck. That pain is back, but this time instead of being quick and sharp, it remains an ache behind my ribs.
A woman with a brassy blond bob and pronounced crow’s feet greets us with delightful energy, then bends to my daughter’s level and introduces herself.
“Welcome to kindergarten. I’m Mrs. Doyle and I’ll be your teacher this year. What’s your name?”
Bea seals herself to Claire like glue to construction paper, hiding her face in the pleats of Claire’s dress.
When she refuses to speak, I answer for her. “This is Bea. And she’s usually not this bashful.”
Mrs. Doyle rises, wearing a considerate smile. “It’s okay to take your time, Bea. Do you like coloring?”
She nods, her head still resting against Claire.
“Me too,” her teacher remarks. “Why don’t you find a table to sit at and color with Mom and Dad while we wait for the rest of the class to join us?”
“Oh, I’m not—” Claire begins, but another family steps into the room, stealing Mrs. Doyle’s attention.
