She only ever phoned, and even then, she tended to handle most communication in person. Her text looked formal. No emoji. No unnecessary punctuation. No softening exclamation point. Just three words that had me sitting straighter in my seat.
I typed back one-handed, then deleted it because one-handed texting while driving was irresponsible and because my first attempt saidOmw, which suddenly felt too casual.
At a red light, I tried again.
Two minutes away. Save me a seat?
Her response came almost immediately.
Already done.
Something stirred in my gut, and it wasn’t the Chinese food I had for lunch. It was ridiculous. She was my nanny. She had saved me a chair at a school recital, not thrown herself between me and an oncoming train.
Still, the message, the considerate action, was making me feel things I hadn’t felt in a long while. I told myself not to be weird about it, then spent the next two minutes being weird about it anyway.
The school parking lot was already packed when I arrived. I found a spot near the back and hurried toward the auditorium, trying not to look as frantic as I felt. I’d loosened my tie, and my hair had suffered the consequences of me running my hand through it at least eleven times during the day.
The end of the financial year always turned my office into a pressure cooker. Everyone needed me to sign off on something or answer a question that could have been an email or, preferably, a private thought they never shared with me at all.
The auditorium doors were closing when I slipped inside. The lights were already dimming, and the room was jam-packed with parents, grandparents, siblings, teachers, and the particular pre-performance electricity produced by children trying hard not to look excited.
I scanned the rows, spotting Winnie near the middle with Billie beside her and an empty seat on her other side. She wore black, naturally. Tonight’s outfit involved a high-necked dress, gloves, a tiny black hat instead of the wide-brimmed one, and sunglasses perched atop her head, even though we were indoors and it was after sunset.
When Billie saw me, she waved her arms like a miniature air traffic controller. Winnie turned, her face softening in a way I had been noticing far too much lately.
I slid into the saved seat just as the lights dimmed fully. “Thank you,” I whispered.
“Cutting it rather close,” she murmured.
“Traffic.”
Her brows lifted.
I shrugged. “And work.”
“There it is.”
Billie leaned across Winnie’s lap. “Bianca said if you missed CJ’s piano thing, she was going to put your name in her villain notebook.”
I frowned. “She has a villain notebook?”
Winnie adjusted the folded program in her lap. Before I could stop myself, I looked at her. Her mouth curved in an amused grin.
The curtain opened, saving me from possibly embarrassing myself. I tended to say the dumbest string of words when Winnie was around. I really needed to work on that.
The first group was the third-grade chorus, which meant neither of my older children was on stage yet. I still watched because Billie knew half the kids and offered commentary in a whisper that had no understanding of acoustics.
“Her bow is falling off. Someone should rescue it.”
Winnie bent her head to Billie’s ear. “Quietly, please.”
Billie nodded solemnly, then whispered, “That kid ate paste last month.”
I pressed my lips together and focused on the stage.
CJ came out next with the fifth and sixth-grade music group. He wore the school’s formal concert blazer and looked far more serious than any eleven-year-old had the right to look. His curls had been flattened somewhat, though one section near the back had staged an uprising.
He walked to the piano bench and sat down with dignity and grace.
