Prologue One #2
I wondered what they saw when they looked at me. Did they notice the way I looked back when I thought no one was watching? Did they see the hunger in my eyes when someone brought in pastries for the break room?
Or did they only see the tired teacher with the polite smile, the one who never lingered after hours or accepted an invitation out ?
I’d learned to hide my desperation, to tuck it away behind careful words and a mask of composure. But some days, I wanted to scream.
I wanted to tell them how hard it was—how every day felt like a battle, how every night I lay awake listening for footsteps outside, for the court date that might change everything.
I was always waiting for the next disaster, the next bill, the next call from a lawyer, my landlord, or, god forbid, Damon.
But I didn’t scream. I never screamed. I just kept moving, working, and pretending that I was strong enough for Leo and me.
That was what survival looked like, after all, a silent cry for help that no one else could hear.
Everything at Seaside was designed to impress, to justify the astronomical tuition fees that parents willingly paid to secure their children's futures.
I wondered what it would be like to be one of those children, to have a future that felt guaranteed instead of uncertain.
My classroom was at the end of the corridor, a spacious room with large windows overlooking the carefully manicured gardens.
Unlike the grand hallways, I'd done my best to make this space feel warm and inviting. I put together colorful reading nooks with plush pillows, learning centers with wooden toys, and walls covered with student work rather than expensive art.
The administration allowed these small rebellions as long as everything remained “tasteful” and within the “staff budget.”
Since each child paid fifty thousand a year to be here, that budget should have been much higher. But I’d learned to make do; I was good at that.
I set my battered tote bag on my desk and began the morning routine. First, I updated the whiteboard with today's schedule, the weather, and our “question of the day”—simple but engaging for five-year-olds still learning to read.
Today's question was, “If you could be any animal, what would you be?” I drew small animal silhouettes beside the question, knowing some students liked the visual cue .
I envied the way they could answer “lion” or “dolphin” or “unicorn” without a trace of irony or fear.
If I were honest, I’d pick something that hibernated. A bear, maybe. Anything that got to sleep for months and didn’t have to worry about custody battles or overdue rent.
Next came preparing the materials for our morning activity, a science lesson about plant growth.
I arranged soil cups, seeds, and child-sized watering cans at each table, calculating how much mess twenty excited children could make with dirt and water.
—A lot, experience had taught me. I laid extra paper towels nearby and made sure the smocks were accessible.
I was already tired, my arms heavy, my thoughts drifting to the second job I’d have to tackle tonight after Leo went to bed. But the kids deserved my best, even if I only had scraps to give.
The classroom door reopened, and Natalie, my teaching assistant, entered with her usual relaxed demeanor and a cup of actual drinkable coffee. “Morning, Estelle,” she greeted, hanging her designer coat in the closet.
Unlike me, Natalie came from money and worked at Seaside because she “loved children” and “was an alumna,” not because she needed the paycheck.
Her diamond engagement ring glittered as she arranged name tags at each seat.
“Morning,” I replied, forcing a smile. “We're starting with the plant unit today. Could you make sure the observation journals are ready?”
She nodded, moving toward the supply cabinet with the confidence of someone who'd never had to count pennies or skip meals.
I pushed away the flicker of resentment—it wasn't Natalie's fault that she'd been born into privilege any more than it was my fault that I hadn't. Still, I kept my distance. I didn’t trust easily, especially not people who’d never had to fight for anything.
By 7:45, the first students began arriving, chauffeured in luxury vehicles or accompanied by nannies dressed professionally .
I stood at the door, greeting each child by name, bending to make eye contact with the shy ones, offering high-fives to the more exuberant.
Despite their designer clothes and weekend trips to Paris, they were still just children, some eager, some anxious, all still needing guidance and care.
“Ms. Estelle!” One child rushed toward me, her hair bouncing, pink designer backpack nearly as big as she was. “I lost a tooth last night and the tooth fairy brought me fifty dollars!”
“Wow, that's quite a generous tooth fairy,” I answered warmly, ushering her toward the cubbies.
Fifty dollars for a tooth. When Leo lost his first tooth, I'd scraped together five one-dollar bills and felt guilty that I couldn't give him more.
More children filtered in, their voices rising in volume as they shared weekend adventures—ski trips, birthday parties with professional entertainers, new puppies from breeders with waiting lists.
I moved among them, helping with jackets and redirecting energy toward the morning activity board, where they could answer the morning question and draw a picture.
Leo slipped in with the last group of students. His eyes found mine immediately, a small smile rising on his lips when he saw me.
We had a rule—I was Ms. Estelle at school to maintain professionalism, but the relief in his eyes whenever he spotted me never failed to warm my heart.
“Good morning, Leo,” I smiled, the same greeting I gave every student, though I had to resist the urge to smooth his hair or check if he'd used the bathroom.
“Morning, Ms. Estelle,” he replied, his voice soft but steady.
He hung his backpack in his cubby and moved to his seat, drawing a dinosaur in his notebook, his current obsession.
After the morning bustle came our first academic block—literacy. I divided the students into groups based on reading level, a task that highlighted the disparities in their preparation .
Some children had been read to since infancy, attended expensive daycares, and worked with private tutors. Others, like Leo, relied solely on what they learned in the classroom and whatever time I could steal to work with them individually.
While Natalie worked with the advanced readers, I sat with the emerging readers, including Leo, guiding them through phonics exercises and sight words. His brow furrowed in concentration as he sounded out each word, determination evident in every careful pronunciation.
“You're doing great,” I whispered when frustration flickered across his cute face at a particularly challenging word. “Remember, every reader struggles sometimes.”
Even so, his current dinosaur obsession had him sounding out words like brachiosaurus—an obsession I was definitely thankful for.
By 10:00, we transitioned to our science lesson. The excitement of planting seeds temporarily erased the invisible boundaries between the children.
They worked together, rich hands covered in soil, all equally delighted by the prospect of watching something grow.
“Ms. Estelle, when will they sprout?” asked a girl, carefully patting soil around her seed.
“It takes time,” I explained, moving between tables to assist. “We'll observe them every day and record changes in our journals. Some might sprout in a few days, others might take longer.”
“Like people,” Leo said quietly when I walked past him, focused on his cup. “Some grow fast, some grow slow, but they all grow.”
I smiled at his insight, holding back a sniffle. “That's exactly right.”
After lunch came “rest and read” time. An hour of quiet where students could look at books or put their heads down. I used these precious minutes to check in with individual students, kneeling beside desks to offer extra help.
When I reached Leo's desk, he was staring at his plant cup, deep in thought.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked softly .
He glanced up, those solemn green eyes so like Giselle's, it hurt. “Will my plant still grow in our dark home?”
The question caught me off guard. I'd tried to shield him from our housing concerns, but it was impossible to hide the obvious.
“Some plants like the dark,” I assured him. “Plants are resilient; they can adapt to new environments.”
“Like us?” he asked.
“Exactly like us.” I squeezed his shoulder gently. “We're very good at adapting, aren't we?”
He nodded, returning to his book with a quiet acceptance that sometimes broke my heart. No five-year-old should understand adaptation as a survival skill.
The afternoon brought art, music, and finally, our closing circle, where students shared one thing they learned and one thing they were grateful for. As they filed out to meet parents and caretakers, I stood at the door, offering hugs and reminders about upcoming projects.
Leo was the last to leave, waiting for me to gather my things so we could walk to the bus stop together. He helped me clean the whiteboard, a task he'd appointed himself.
“Did you have a good day, Elle?”
I looked around the empty classroom, at the leftover plant cups lined on the windowsill, at the books waiting to be read tomorrow, at the small boy who carried the weight of our circumstances with such quiet dignity.
“I had a very good day,” I told him, and in that moment, it wasn't entirely a lie. For these hours, I'd been able to teach, guide, and make a difference.
“How about you?”
“It was okay,” he said, considering. “But I'm glad we're going home now.”
Home. The word held so much uncertainty, yet it felt like the only thing that mattered when he said it. I helped him into his jacket, double-checking that he had his stuff .
“Me too,” I replied, taking his small hand as we stepped into the hallway. “Let's go home.”
We walked through the academy's grand entrance, past parents in designer clothes and children climbing into luxury SUVs, and I held my head high.
We might not have much, but we had each other. And some days, that had to be enough.