I let that sit.
“I’m not saying trust him blindly,” she adds. “Just pay attention to what he does.”
“He’s showing up,” I admit.
“And that matters.”
It does.
That’s the problem.
I grab my keys before I can second-guess anything and head out, the cool morning air hitting my skin as I step outside, trying to leave the rest of it behind.
Routine. That’s what I need.
Something solid. Predictable. Mine.
The short drive across town is quiet, familiar streets keeping my focus from drifting back to the ranch. Back to him.
It would be easy to replay every second, to pick it apart until I either convince myself it meant nothing or too much, and neither of those options helps me right now.
So I don’t go there.
I park at the school and sit for a second, hands still on the steering wheel, taking one slow breath before I open the door and step out. The building looks the same as it always does, brick warmed by the rising sun, the front doors propped open just enough for the first teachers and staff filtering in.
This is where I know who I am.
Inside, the hallway smells faintly of cleaner and crayons, bulletin boards already lined with bright paper and careful handwriting, and something in my chest eases just a fraction as I walk toward my office.
Kids’ voices drift from down the hall, laughter and chatter building as more of them arrive, and it grounds me in a way nothing else has this morning.
“Morning, Ms. Grant!” a small voice calls.
I turn just in time to see one of my second graders barreling toward me, backpack bouncing against his shoulders, and I crouch instinctively to meet him halfway.
“Morning, Eli,” I say, smiling despite everything. “You’re early.”
“My mom had to be at work,” he explains, already launching into a story about something that happened at home, and I listen, really listen. This part matters. This is the part I’m good at. The part that doesn’t shift under my feet when everything else feels uncertain.
By the time he runs off toward his classroom, I feel more like myself.
More in control.
I unlock my office and step inside, setting my bag down on the chair before I start moving through the motions that come second nature by now. Straightening the stack of papers on my desk. Checking my schedule. Adjusting the small basket of fidget tools I keep within reach for the kids who need something to hold onto while they talk.
It’s quiet here. Contained. Safe.
I sit down and open my planner, flipping to today’s date, letting the list of appointments and check-ins take up space in my head instead of everything else trying to push in.
There’s a rhythm to this job, a steady cadence of small moments that add up to something bigger, and I hold onto that as the day starts to pick up.
A knock sounds on my door a few minutes later, and I glance up to see another student hovering there, hesitant but hopeful.
“Come on in,” I say, gesturing her closer, my voice softening automatically.
She steps inside, clutching the straps of her backpack, and I shift my attention fully to her, asking the right questions, giving herthe space she needs to answer them. It’s easy to focus here, easy to be present in a way that doesn’t leave room for anything else.
For a while, it works.
