Page 51

"I'm not confronting her," I say evenly. "I'm going through proper channels."

I pull up a blank email, attach the forwarded thread, and address it directly to Principal Harrison. My fingers move over the keys quickly.

Dr. Harrison,

I am forwarding an email circulated this morning by Ms. Jennifer Marsh to school staff and parent volunteers. The insinuations regarding my involvement with my daughter's classroom and Ms. Hartley's professional conduct are entirely baseless, inappropriate, and defamatory.

If Ms. Marsh has concerns about my involvement in my daughter's education, she can address them through the appropriate channels. What she doesn't get to do is circulate insinuations about my daughter's teacher to other parents because I declined her personal invitations.

I request a formal meeting with you at your earliest convenience to address this matter and ensure my daughter's educational environment is protected from staff misconduct.

Sincerely, Brock Rhodes

I hit send.

"Good," Chris says quietly. "Keep it strictly administrative. Let Harrison handle his staff. Jennifer's misconduct is a separate professional issue from your personal life."

My thumb hovers over Megan's contact card, but I force myself to pull my hand back. She asked for space, and I have to give it to her. Harrison can handle Jennifer's breach of conduct while I wait until Megan is ready to talk to me.

Wednesday afternoon brings a crisp November chill.

It's my custody day with Kayla. I clear my calendar by three and drive to the elementary school, parking near the far curb of the visitor lot.

I leave my phone in the console. No lingering in the hallways. No checking for Jennifer or Dr. Harrison. I walk to the courtyard and wait near the flagpole with the other parents as the dismissal bell rings.

The double doors open, and the primary classes spill out into the autumn air.

Then Megan appears near the bus line.

My chest tightens so hard it's difficult to draw a breath.

She's wearing a tailored wool coat over her curves, her long dark brown hair pinned up in a loose clip with soft strands framing her face. She smiles warmly as she helps a second-grader zip his jacket—the same generous, effortless warmth that pulled me in fourteen months ago when Kayla was in first grade.

She stands straight, brushes her hair from her cheek, and her brown eyes find mine across the yard.

Neither of us moves.

The space between us hums with heat and history, every instinct urging me to cross the pavement and close the distance. Instead, I keep my hands resting in the pockets of my overcoat, holding her gaze from where I stand. Megan's throat moves as she swallows, the tension in her shoulders softening as a flicker of something tender and conflicted warms her expression.

"Daddy!"

Kayla comes running across the sidewalk, her purple backpack bouncing.

I crouch down, catching my seven-year-old in my arms and lifting her into a quick hug. "Hey, sweet girl."

"Miss Hartley gave our table gold stars on our spelling tests today," Kayla says proudly, holding up a paper with neat red checkmarks.

I look at the paper. My thumb brushes the corner where Megan's hand rested. "That's because you worked hard. Miss Hartley knows what she's doing."

I stand, taking Kayla's hand.

Before turning toward the car, I look back toward the bus line. Megan is still watching. I give her a single, respectful nod—professional and clear, but carrying every ounce of my sincerity.

She hesitates, then offers a small, quiet nod in return.

Walking away with my daughter is difficult, but for the first time since everything started, I know I'm doing it right.

That evening, after making dinner and reading Kayla her bedtime story, I sit in my study at home.