Page 4 of Smoke Signals

Chicago preschool alternatives.

Kindergarten readiness, trauma silence.

Best preschools north side Chicago.

Tab after tab opens. Montessori. Play-based. Language immersion. Smaller classrooms. Specialized programs. Waiting lists.

Did I screw this up?

I picture the town we left—quiet streets, familiar faces, Lance everywhere. His name on plaques, his picture on the station wall. Every well-meaning person telling Alaska how proud her daddy would be.

She deserved a fresh start, and I needed one too.

Chicago was supposed to be that. A place big enough to disappear inside. A place where Alaska could grow without constantly being reminded of what she lost.

But what if big is too big?

I click another tab, then another—housing prices this time. Condos with two bedrooms and balconies. Somewhere I could own instead of rent. Somewhere that feels permanent.

Next year. If this works….If.

A knock sounds on the desk right in front of me, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Jesus—” I laugh breathlessly, spinning around.

Brielle— who was my first client and friend when I moved here, grins at me from the doorway with a ginger ale in one hand and a saltine sleeve in the other. Three months pregnant and somehow still radiating a calm I envy the hell out of.

“Sorry,” she says. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” I lie. “Just… spaced out.”

She raises an eyebrow like she doesn’t believe me but lets it go. “Same room?”

I help her onto the table, adjust the pillows the way she likes, and make sure she’s comfortable before leaving to wash my hands. When I come back the room is dim, quiet, and safe.

“How’s Alaska?” she asks gently once I start, my hands moving in slow, grounding strokes along her shoulders.

The question hits differently coming from her.

I exhale. “Preschool called me into the office today with concerns.”

“Ah,” she murmurs. “That the tone they used too?”

“Yeah. That’s the one.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s… her.” I work tension out of her muscles, focusing on the way my thumbs sink in, release. “She’s still not talking, which you know she hasn’t since the fire. They’re worried about kindergarten next year.”

Brielle hums softly. “And you?”

I swallow. “I’m Googling schools and tutors.”

She laughs quietly. “Sounds about right.”

There’s a pause, then, “You really think she needs a tutor? You’ve always said how smart she is.”

I freeze for half a second. “Yeah…Maybe. I don’t know. She’s smart as hell, but maybe someone to just help her start letter sounds that can coax her to say a few things. I don’t know. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”