Chapter 17 Jess
Jess
I’m standing outside Ben’s classroom at three twenty-seven trying not to think about the fact I had sex with my boss twice now.
The hallway smells like freshly dried paint and industrial floor cleaner. It triggers something in my nervous system. Old anxiety from when I was the kid who couldn’t breathe in crowded spaces.
I count to calm myself. One, two, three.
Better.
Marginally.
On cue, Ben’s classroom door opens and kids start pouring out like someone released the floodgates. Other doors down the hall also open in a similar vein. The noise level goes from zero to jet engine in approximately one-point-five seconds.
And there’s Ben. Standing frozen in the doorway. Her curls are perfect because I spent twenty minutes on them this morning. Her school uniform is pristine. Frederick is clutched in both hands.
But her face.
Oh no.
That’s the face of a kid who’s about to have a meltdown.
Mrs. Chen, her teacher, is crouched next to her doing the whole gentle-adult-voice thing. But it’s not working. I can see it from here. Ben’s breathing is getting faster. Her shoulders are climbing toward her ears.
I move through the swirling chaos of parents and kids like I’m navigating an obstacle course.
“Excuse me.”
“Pardon me.”
“Sorry.”
“Coming through.”
Finally I reach her.
“Hey sweetie.” I kneel down. “Rough day?”
Ben’s eyes are shiny with unshed tears. “Someone took my crayon.”
A crayon.
The apocalypse is upon us and it’s crayon-shaped.
“That sounds really hard,” I say, keeping my voice steady. Not dismissive. Not over-the-top sympathetic. Just present. “Want to do our hand squeeze?”
She nods. Sets Frederick on the floor. Takes my hand.
We do the one-two-three squeeze. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Now breathe. Smell the cocoa. Blow the steam.”
She inhales. Shaky but trying. Then exhales.
“Again. Smell. Blow.”
This time it’s smoother.
“Again.”
She does it a third time.
Her shoulders drop. The crisis passes. She picks up Frederick and we’re good to go.
Crisis averted.
We’re just out the classroom door when I hear it.
“Oh my God, that was adorable.”
I turn. There’s a mom across from the door. I vaguely recognize her from pickup. Blonde highlights. Expensive athleisure. Hair in a tight braid. Phone in hand.
Phone.
In.
Hand.
Pointed at us.
Recording.
My stomach drops.
No no no no.
“Did you get that?” she’s saying to another mom. “The breathing thing? That’s like, peak parenting content.”
Peak parenting content.
When your worst nightmare is someone else’s viral moment.
I keep my voice calm. Professional. Even though my face is definitely turning red and my anxiety is trying to convince me the world is ending.
“Hey.” I walk over with Ben still holding my hand. “I don’t think you meant any harm. But we actually have a no-posting policy about Ben.”
The mom blinks at me. “What? I was just capturing a sweet moment.”
“I totally get that impulse.” I do. God, do I ever. “But Ben’s family has a privacy policy. No faces. No videos. No posting.”
She looks at me like I just told her the earth is flat. “But it was just for my stories. It’s not like I’m putting it on the news.”
“Just for my stories” is exactly the problem, lady.
Do you know how fast things spread?
Do you know how many creeps are out there?
I can feel Jag hovering close-by, ready to jump in if necessary.
“I know it seems harmless,” I continue, still calm. Still professional. “But her dad is pretty strict about this. And honestly? Kids deserve privacy. Even in sweet moments.”
The other mom chimes in. “But everyone posts their kids. That’s what social media is for.”
And here we go. The argument I used to make when I was on the other side. When I was the one mining every moment for content. When I thought visibility equaled value.
“Everyone posts their kids,” I agree. “And that’s the key. Their kids. Ben is not your kid. Ben’s family chooses not to post her anywhere online. So I’m asking you, parent to parent, to please delete that clip.”
The first mom’s face goes through several emotions. Defensive. Annoyed. Then, finally, something that might be understanding.
“Fine.” She pulls up her phone. Shows me the deletion. “But you’re being really uptight about this.”
Uptight.
Sure.
That’s what we’re calling “protecting a five-year-old’s privacy” now.
“Thanks for understanding,” I say instead. Because escalating won’t help anyone. I turn toward the other mom and wait expectantly.
“Deleted,” the second parent says, showing me her screen.
I nod. “Thank you.”
We leave. Ben is oblivious to the whole thing. She’s telling Frederick about the crayon incident in great detail.
But I’m rattled.
Because that mom isn’t the problem. She’s a symptom. Everyone has a phone. Everyone posts everything. And the line between “capturing memories” and “violating privacy” has completely dissolved.
When you realize you used to be the villain in this story.
I text Sabrina as soon as we’re in the car. Jag’s driving. Ben’s buckled in with Frederick.
Parent almost posted Ben’s hallway moment. Got a delete but we need to set clearer boundaries. Need your PR expertise...
Her response is immediate: On it. Meet me at FHG in 20?
Done, I text back.
I glance at Ben in the backseat. She’s still talking to Frederick, but somehow the story has morphed into an epic quest involving dragons and brave snails.
I text Rosa: Change of plans. Can you meet us at FHG instead of home? Ben needs her snack but I have a meeting with Sabrina.
Three dots appear. Then: Of course. I’ll bring everything. Be there in 15.
Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.
She sends back a heart emoji. Because Rosa is the kind of person who can somehow make emojis feel like a warm hug.
Twenty minutes later I’m in Sabrina’s temporary office at FHG headquarters. She’s got her laptop open and that efficient PR energy fully activated. Ben’s in Ben’s Corner with Rosa, having her after-school snack.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” Sabrina says.
I walk her through it. The meltdown. The Brave Rules. The mom filming. The “just for my stories” defense.
Sabrina nods. Takes notes. Doesn’t interrupt.
When I’m done, she says, “Okay. We need a class-list note. Clear boundaries. Written. Distributed to all families. School-wide.”
“What do we say?”
“Values first. Privacy over content. Kid dignity as non-negotiable.” She’s already typing. “We frame it as care, not restriction.”
We draft together. Back and forth. Cutting corporate speak. Adding warmth. Making it firm but not hostile.
The final version reads:
A note about privacy and care:
Many school families have chosen to keep school moments off social media. This isn’t about being difficult. It’s about giving kids agency over their own image.
If you see a moment that feels “shareable,” pause before posting. Ask yourself: would this child want this preserved forever? Would their family?
Guidelines:
- No faces without explicit written permission from parents
- No meltdowns, wobbles, or vulnerable moments
- If you’re unsure, don’t post. Or ask first.
- If asked to delete, do so gracefully
Takedowns: If something slips through and a family requests removal, please delete promptly. No questions. No debate.
We’re all learning to balance connection and privacy. Thank you for respecting these boundaries.
I read it three times. “It’s perfect.”
“It’s necessary.” Sabrina hits send. “I sent it to the Parent Teacher Association. It should hit the class list later tonight.” Then she looks at me. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine.” The lie comes automatically.
She frowns. “Jess.”
I sigh. Slump in my chair. “I’m terrified I’m going to screw this up. That some parent is going to post something anyway and it’ll blow up and Marco will realize hiring me was a mistake.”
“Has he said that?” Sabrina presses.
“No. But—”
“Then stop borrowing problems.” She leans back. “You handled that mom perfectly. You got the delete. You’re setting boundaries. You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to do.”
Am I though?
Because I’ve also slept with my boss since starting.
And hidden it from my brother, my boss’s best friend.
And pretending I’m not falling for him. And Ben.
So my professional competence is maybe canceled out by my personal disasters.
I don’t say any of that out loud.
“Thanks,” I manage instead.
My phone buzzes. Marco.
Heard what happened. Thank you for handling it. I mean it.
My face fills with heat. Thank God Sabrina’s looking at her laptop and can’t see me turning a bright red over a simple text message.
Just doing my job, I type back.
His response: You’re doing more than that. You’re protecting her. I won’t forget it.
I stare at those words until my phone screen goes dark.
When your boss thanks you for basic decency and you want to climb him like a tree.
Again.
Sabrina closes her laptop. “Okay. Just got a note from Elena. She’s drafting a formal Parent Bill of Care for the PTA. Filepe will interface with school admin about the broader policy.”
“That seems like a lot.”
“It’s exactly what’s needed.” She stands. Packs her bag. “Privacy isn’t negotiable. Especially for kids. Not to mention kids with anxiety. Or kids whose parents are in the public eye.”
She’s right. Of course she’s right.
“Also,” Sabrina adds, pausing at the door, “for what it’s worth? You’re really good at this. The nanny thing. The boundary thing. All of it.”
My throat tightens. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
She leaves.
I sit there for a moment.
Just processing.
A year ago I would’ve been the mom filming. Would’ve captioned it something like “Parenting goals!” and chased the engagement.
Now I’m the one shutting it down.
When you realize you’ve become the person you were always meant to be.
I can’t help a quiet chortle.
Yeah. Only took a complete career implosion and getting hired by a billionaire I accidentally slept with.
I grab my bag and head to Ben’s Corner. She’s explaining to Rosa why Frederick needed his own snack.
“Because he was brave today,” Ben says very seriously. “Brave snails get crackers and apple slices.”
Rosa nods along like this makes perfect sense, and watches them. Watches Ben being a kid who gets to be anxious and messy and protected from performance.
This is why the boundaries matter.
This is why the work is worth it.
Even if it means standing between a five-year-old and the entire content-hungry Internet.
Even if it means becoming the person who says no when everyone else says yes.
I can do this.
I’m already doing this.
And for the first time in months, maybe years, that feels like enough.