Chapter 10 Piper
Isat in my car in the Riverside Elementary parking lot for fifteen minutes before I could make myself go inside.
Mid august, teacher prep week. The first day back. Usually I loved this—the smell of fresh crayons and industrial cleaner, the blank slate of a new school year, the excitement of setting up my classroom exactly how I wanted it.
This year, I just felt tired.
My phone buzzed with a message from Maya.
You've got this. And if anyone's weird, throat punch them. HR be damned.
I smiled despite myself and texted back a thumbs up. Then I grabbed my bag, took a breath, and walked toward the building.
The main office was already buzzing with activity. Teachers clustered around the mailboxes, comparing summer stories and showing off new classroom supplies. I recognized them all—had worked with them for five years—but suddenly walking in felt like being the new kid.
Everyone knew. Of course everyone knew. Small town, big scandal. Piper Hayes canceled her wedding five weeks before the date. Caught her firefighter fiancé cheating. Can you imagine?
I could feel the shift in energy the moment I walked in. Conversations paused. Eyes darted toward me, then quickly away.
"Piper!" Janet from third grade materialized beside me, pulling me into a hug that smelled like lavender and desperation. "Oh honey, how ARE you? We've all been so worried. I wanted to call but I didn't want to intrude, but oh sweetie, I'm just so sorry—"
"I'm okay," I said, extracting myself from her grip. "Really. I'm fine."
"Well, if you need anything, anything at all, you just let me know. I'm here for you." She squeezed my arm. "We all are."
I nodded and moved toward my mailbox, trying to look busy. Janet meant well, but I could feel her watching me like I might shatter at any moment.
"Hayes!" Principal Brennan appeared in his office doorway. "Got a minute?"
I followed him into his office and he closed the door behind us.
Brennan was in his late fifties, balding, with reading glasses perpetually perched on top of his head. He'd been principal at Riverside for fifteen years and ran the school like a well-oiled machine. He was efficient, no-nonsense, but genuinely cared about his staff.
"Welcome back," he said, settling into his chair. "How was your summer?"
It was such a normal question. Such a principal question. Like he didn't know exactly how my summer had been.
"It was... eventful," I said.
He had the decency to look uncomfortable. "I heard about—well. I'm sorry. That must have been difficult."
"Thanks."
"If you need anything—time off, a lighter workload, someone to cover your duties—just let me know. We're here to support you."
Everyone kept saying that. We're here to support you. Like I was fragile, or like I needed handling.
"I appreciate it," I said. "But I'm good. Really."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. Well, the offer stands. Janitorial has already opened your classroom up this morning, so everything’s set for you. Faculty meeting's at ten."
I thanked him and escaped to the hallway.
My classroom was at the end of the second-grade wing, Room 2B.
I'd been in this room for three years, just a couple years after I’d arrived at Riverside Elementary, and had made it mine with hand-painted bulletin boards and a reading corner full of pillows and a poster that said In This Classroom, We Are Kind.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The room smelled like industrial cleaner and floor wax.
Janitorial had done their job—desks wiped down and arranged in their usual clusters of four, floors mopped, windows cleaned.
The alphabet banner still hung above the whiteboard.
The reading corner pillows were stacked neatly.
The poster that said In This Classroom, We Are Kind was slightly crooked on the back wall.
Boxes of supplies sat on my desk, waiting to be unpacked. New markers. Construction paper. The laminated name tags I'd made in June before everything fell apart.
I set down my bag and looked around.
This used to feel like home. Somewhere I belonged.
Now it just felt like a room.
I pulled out a box of supplies and started unpacking scissors and glue sticks. Then pencils that would be lost or chewed to nubs by October. I organized them into the labeled bins I'd set up years ago, following the same system I always followed.
I was on autopilot. That's what this was. Going through the motions.
I moved to the bulletin board and started pinning up the welcome display I'd made in June.
Bright construction paper letters that said WELCOME TO 2ND GRADE!
surrounded by hand-drawn stars. I'd been so excited making this.
Had spent an entire afternoon cutting out letters and arranging them just right.
That felt like a lifetime ago.
My phone buzzed, and I fished it out from my pocket. On the screen, a text from my mom.
First day back! How's it going? Call me later. Love you.
I pocketed the phone without responding.
By noon, I'd unpacked three boxes, hung two bulletin boards, and arranged the reading corner twice. The room looked exactly like it always did. Cheerful, organized, and ready for twenty-five seven-year-olds to come in and make it theirs.
I sat at my desk and stared at the lesson plan template I was supposed to fill out for next week.
Week 1: Getting to Know You activities. Classroom rules. Building community.
I'd taught this week a hundred times. Could do it in my sleep.
So why did it feel so wrong?
"Knock knock." A voice at my door. I looked up to see Eleanor, the other second-grade teacher. She taught 2A next door, and we'd been work friends for years—shared lesson plans, vented about difficult parents, covered each other's classes when needed.
"Hey," I said, mustering a smile.
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. "Okay, real talk. How are you actually doing?"
"Everyone keeps asking me that."
"Because everyone's worried. But most of them are being weird about it." She pulled up a student chair and sat down. "I'm not going to be weird. I'm just going to ask: are you okay?"
I opened my mouth to give her the same line I'd been giving everyone. I'm fine. Really.
But Eleanor was looking at me with actual concern, not pity. And suddenly I was tired of lying.
"I don't know," I said. "I don't think so."
She nodded. "Fair. You called off your wedding. You'd be a robot if you were fine."
“I called it off just five weeks before the wedding," I said. "Everyone keeps leaving that part out."
"Jesus." She shook her head. "I'm sorry. That's... that's brutal."
"Yeah."
"Is it weird being back?"
"So weird." I gestured around the room. "This used to be my favorite thing. Setting up the classroom, planning lessons, getting excited about a new group of kids. And now I'm just... going through the motions."
"That makes sense. You've been through trauma."
"It wasn't trauma. It was just a breakup."
"Piper." Eleanor leaned forward. "You found your fiancé cheating on you, and you canceled your wedding. Your entire life imploded. That’s trauma."
I looked down at my hands. "I'm supposed to be over it by now."
"Says who? The grief police?" She shook her head. "There's no timeline for this. You're allowed to still be messed up about it."
"I just want to feel normal again."
"You will, eventually. But maybe not by forcing yourself to show up and pretend everything's fine." She paused. "Have you thought about taking some time? Brennan said he'd approve a leave if you needed it."
"And do what? Sit at my sister's apartment and spiral?"
"Or... do something for yourself. Something you actually want to do."
I thought about the kitchen covered in baked goods. About Maya's suggestion and the nine thousand dollars that I hadn’t spent on a wedding.
"I've been baking," I said quietly. "A lot. Like, obsessively."
Eleanor’s face lit up. "Oh my God, you brought those lemon bars to the end-of-year party. Those were insane."
"Thanks."
"No, like, actually insane. I ate four of them. My husband asked if I could get the recipe." She tilted her head. "Are you thinking about doing something with that?"
"Maybe. I don't know. It's stupid."
"It's not stupid. You're amazing at it." She stood up. "Look, I'm not going to tell you what to do. But if you're sitting here feeling like this doesn't fit anymore? Maybe listen to that."
She squeezed my shoulder and headed for the door, then paused.
"For what it's worth? You don't owe anyone anything. Not Brennan, not the kids, not even yourself. You're allowed to change your mind about what you want."
After she left, I sat there for a long time, staring at the empty lesson plan template.
You're allowed to change your mind about what you want.
Was I?
I pulled out my phone and opened a new browser tab. Typed in: How to start a bakery business.