23. Fiona
Fiona
The traffic on the expressway was barely moving.
Fiona tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, eyes flicking between brake lights and the clock on the dash. She was cutting it close. She’d tried a different route, and still— still —it was the same endless crawl toward the city.
The car purred beneath her, smooth and quiet, so unlike the rattle-trap she’d driven for years. But even the leather seats and upgraded sound system couldn’t blunt the edge of the exhaustion curling around her ribs.
She loved Sweetwater. Loved Emma and the quiet street and the way the air smelled like cut grass at night. But the commute was breaking her.
Every mile felt like she was dragging the remnants of an old life behind her—one she couldn’t quite shed, even if it no longer fit.
She pulled into the school lot just as the warning bell rang.
Inside, she shrugged off her coat, dropped her bag next to her desk, and forced herself into the motions of morning: checking the whiteboard, pulling up the attendance.
But her limbs were heavy. Her chest tighter than usual. She needed to find a place closer to school, somewhere in the city. Something temporary, maybe—but rent was a whole other equation, and her salary wasn’t exactly built for studio apartments with functioning heat.
She was still mid-worry when the front office email popped up on her screen.
Subject: Classroom Funds Allocation – URGENT
Fiona, just wanted to let you know that we’ve received a sizable anonymous donation earmarked specifically for your classroom. No strings attached.
Admin’s already approved it. You can submit receipts for supplies, books, field trips, whatever. Just come by when you have a minute so we can walk you through the paperwork.
Thought this might brighten your Monday. :)
Fiona stared at the email.
Read it again.
Anonymous. Specifically for her.
She leaned back in her chair, blinking fast. Her eyes landed on the growing list on her desk: calculators that needed replacing, the bookshelf she wanted for the reading corner, headphones for the kids who needed quiet during test days. She hadn’t even dared dream about a field trip this year.
She felt the prickle of tears but pushed them down. This wasn’t a breakdown moment. It was just… relief. Confusing, unexpected relief.
She didn’t know who had sent it. Maybe it didn’t matter if it was Emma pulling strings, or a parent, or—someone else.
All that mattered was what it meant:
She could give her students more.
She could breathe a little.
If she wasn’t spending her own money on the class supplies maybe, just maybe, she could afford first month’s rent and a deposit somewhere without sacrificing half the math curriculum.
She clicked reply.
Thank you. Truly. You have no idea what this means.
When she hit send, the weight in her chest hadn’t vanished—but it had shifted. Just slightly. Enough to let her lungs expand.
Outside the classroom window, the sky was still gray. But the light was different. Softer.
The house was quiet except for the soft hum of the heater and the distant sound of Emma and Milo's muffled conversation through the walls. Fiona sat on the guest bed, knees drawn up, laptop balanced against her thighs.
She'd been staring at the blank post screen for ten minutes.
The anonymous donation email was still open in another tab—she'd read it three times since getting home, still not quite believing it was real. Someone had thought of her. Had seen her classroom, her students, her needs, and decided to help.
She didn't know who. Part of her suspected, but she wasn't ready to examine that too closely.
What mattered was the feeling it had given her: that what she did mattered. That her work was worth supporting. That she wasn't invisible.
Her fingers found the keyboard.
Today someone reminded me that the work we do matters, even when it feels small.
Anonymous kindness is a particular kind of magic. It asks for nothing back. It just says: I see you, and what you're doing is important.
To whoever sent that gift to my classroom—my students will have books and supplies and field trips because of you. You'll probably never see the faces that light up when we can finally afford that science kit, or hear the "thank you" from the kid who gets to keep the book instead of returning it.
But I'll see it. I'll hear it. And I'll remember that kindness multiplies.
She paused, finger hovering over the post button. This felt more personal than her other posts. More specific. More vulnerable.
But vulnerability had been her superpower once. Before someone turned it into a weapon.
Maybe it could be again.
She posted it.
Within minutes, the likes started coming. Not many—her follower count was still small—but steady. Real. And then the comments:
rainydayreader92: Teachers deserve the world.
emmathebest: So proud of you sis
Fiona's throat tightened. These weren't strangers making jokes. These were people who saw her—really saw her—and wanted to lift her up.
She set the laptop aside and curled up under the covers, phone still warm in her hand.
She wasn’t the caricature Dean had created.
Just Fiona. Teacher. Sister. Human being trying to make the world a little kinder.
It wasn’t enough for her husband, but it was enough for her.