Chapter 18 - Maren
Maren
“This is our kindergarten wing,” Mrs. Alcott said, her voice soft but proud as she led me down a hallway lined with bright, fresh paint and neatly laminated artwork. Everything smelled faintly of wood polish and brand new wax crayons. For years, this exact scent was home to me.
But I nodded too much, smiled at everything. At the mural of smiling sunflowers. At the bulletin board labeled Kindness Garden. Even at the tiny cubbies that would have each child’s displayed. Perfectly in place. Familiar, in a way that made something behind my ribs ease.
“You’ll have twelve kids to start with,” Mrs. Alcott said. “Maybe fourteen, depending on enrollment. We want to keep class sizes intimate. Give the teachers time to really connect.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I said. I was being sincere, but my tone still held an edge of mania that I couldn’t shake. Like I was forcing it.
She eyed me for a second, then added, “I know you’re used to much bigger classes, but you’ll get used to it in no time.”
“I’m sure I will. I love really getting to know them. Seeing that growth up close.”
She smiled at me over the top of her glasses. “That’s what I remember most about you, Maren. The way your kids thrived. I still think about that end-of-year performance you organized. The one with the cardboard castle and the paper crowns?”
“You remember that?” I laughed, embarrassed and flattered all at once.
“Of course I do. You made it look like Broadway in there.”
It shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did, that simple kindness. It had been months since anyone associated me with who I really was… A teacher.
I swallowed against the sudden heat in my throat and nodded again, pretending to be absorbed in a display of hand-painted pumpkins.
The new school was smaller than my old one, but newer. Sleek whiteboards, tablets stacked in charging docks, a library nook that could’ve doubled as something out of a magazine spread. Everything gleamed with potential, like it was just waiting for me to step in and take my place again.
I imagined it for a second — standing in front of my own classroom again, little faces looking up at me, mornings full of songs and sticky fingers and construction paper chaos.
I imagined going home at the end of the day to my own apartment, maybe picking up takeout, calling Liv to complain about report cards or rowdy buses on field trip days.
It was the life I’d fought so hard for. The one that got ripped from me without permission or warning.
Mrs. Alcott stopped beside a doorway and gestured inside. “And here we are.”
My heart skipped, and I paused at the threshold of the kindergarten class.
The room was flooded with late morning light. Every surface looked brand new. Bright tables, bins sorted by color, a reading corner draped in gauzy fabric. A single poster hung over the chalkboard in tidy cursive: Be kind. Be curious. Be brave.
I stepped inside slowly, my flats sinking into the soft rug. The smell of fresh paper and lemon cleaner hit me, sharp and comforting all at once.
“This would be your room,” she said. “You’d start next week if you accept. No pressure, but I really hope you’ll accept.”
I smiled and turned in a slow circle, already seeing the possibilities. The name tags I’d set out. The bulletin board themes and morning songs we’d sing.
This was it. This was my chance to finally put my life back in order.
I ran my fingers along the edge of a small desk at the front of the class, tracing the smooth wood. “It’s perfect.”
I sank into the desk chair, laying my palms flat in front of me as I looked over the classroom. My room. If I accepted her offer. Much nicer than the one I’d left. Pretty close to the one I always wished I’d end up in.
And yet, sitting there, I felt oddly out of place. Like I’d slipped into a play of someone else’s life and was struggling to remember the lines.
Mrs. Alcott pointed toward the corner of the room where a basket of storybooks waited. “The reading nook over there doubles as a dress-up theater. Costumes are stored on the other side of the shelves. It’ll prompt creative play.”
My gaze drifted to the empty corner of the class, and suddenly I saw Sadie curled up with a picture book, the day’s paint smudges still faint on her fingers, sounding the words to herself. I could almost hear her quiet giggles.
It was ridiculous, the clarity hitting me in a single beat.
In a classroom full of promise and carefully curated supplies, I felt a pang of wrongness.
This life I had mapped out, every detail so neat and attainable…
it didn’t fit me anymore. Not now. Not after the past few weeks with the kids.
With Ethan, Miles, and Adrian. They’d all changed something in me that I wasn’t expecting.
Mrs. Alcott’s voice cut through the swirl of emotions blustering inside me.
“We’ll have labels printed for cubbies next week, but I wanted to show you where the art supplies go.
The children will get to help keep things organized, of course.
Responsibility and pride in our spaces are big themes this semester. ”
I forced a smile and nodded, but my fingers tightened on the edge of the desk.
Responsibility and pride. I could feel it everywhere in this room.
But the weight of being the person in charge, the person who mattered most to these children, the one who shaped their world.
And I wanted it. I did. But not at the expense of everything else that had shifted inside me.
I leaned back in the chair, letting my eyes sweep the room.
It was perfect, every bit of it, and yet…
hollow. The chairs were tucked neatly under tables, the books stacked with precision, the sun spilling golden light across surfaces that smelled faintly of fresh paint and potential.
But I couldn’t shake the thought that none of it belonged to me. Not really.
“Are you alright, Maren?” Mrs. Alcott asked softly, breaking into my reverie. She had noticed the pause, the slack in my posture.
I blinked, shaking my head lightly. “Yes, of course. Just… thinking about how quickly the students will make this place theirs.”
“That’s the fun part,” she said with a smile, and stepped closer to a bulletin board. “You know how fast different personalities leave their mark.”
Yeah, I knew that better than I knew a lot of things. Especially now.
My life had been a careful equation: teach, pay bills, get back on track. And yet, these past weeks had rewritten the formula in ways I hadn’t accounted for.
I pushed back from the desk and stood, letting the legs of the chair scrape lightly against the floor. The sound was sharp in the quiet room, a small reminder that I was here, that I belonged in this space physically even if my mind was elsewhere.
Mrs. Alcott gestured toward the door. “Shall we continue? I want to show you the rest of the school before we finalize the paperwork.”
I followed her out into the hallway, my shoes clicking lightly against the polished floors.
Outside, the winter sunlight had begun to lower, casting the playground in long, soft shadows.
Children’s voices from a neighboring after-school program drifted faintly through the open windows, a cheerful counterpoint to the knot of feelings in my chest.
“They finished the playground a couple of weeks ago,” Mrs. Alcott said, walking beside me. “Slides, climbing structures, and a small garden area. You’ll have your hands full, but it’s all designed for small groups so you can focus on meaningful activities.”
Meaningful. Every word seemed to echo inside me as I followed her past the lockers and the coat cubbies, past the small indoor garden area where sunlight caught the leaves in bright patches.
I could almost feel the hands of my other students, the warmth of little arms threading through mine, the giggles and whispers of “teacher, look!” and “teacher, watch me!”
And yet, the thought of it—the carefully ordered, perfectly planned, entirely predictable life—felt almost suffocating. My fingers itched for something messier, something real, something that made my heart skip forward without a neat path laid out.
Mrs. Alcott led me down the final hallway, past generic paintings toward her office. “We just need signatures and a quick review of the handbook,” she said. “Then you can start planning your first week.”
My mind wasn’t on forms or policies or class start dates.
It was on the brownstone, on the laughter, on the chaotic warmth of a life I hadn’t known I wanted until I’d lived it.
I could feel it tugging at me, an invisible thread, and for the first time, I wondered if getting back on my original path would be enough.
Or if it had ever really been enough at all.
“Let’s take this shortcut.” Mrs. Alcott led me into a courtyard that served as a center atrium to the whole school.
The crispness of the late afternoon brushed against my cheeks.
Long shadows stretched across the courtyard, a quiet, measured calm that only made the dissonance inside me feel louder.
I should have been excited, ready to claim the next chapter of my life so I could forget all the shitty stuff from the last one.
But all I could feel was the pull of the unexpected comfort that had woven itself into my days in Back Bay.
And just like that, the certainty I’d carried into the school dissolved, leaving me standing between the promise of what I thought I wanted and the reality I was beginning to crave.
Each step toward the principal’s office made my chest tighten. I knew what awaited me there—a desk, a chair, a folder, a pen. A neatly packaged future.
Mrs. Alcott opened the door before I could reach it, her smile warm but expectant. “Ready to make it official?”
I followed her inside, the office smaller than I’d pictured, cozy in a way that should have been comforting. Everything about it whispered stability, order, and certainty. The contract lay there, waiting for my signature. I was sweating despite the chill.
I sat in the chair across from Mrs. Alcott, my hands clenching in my lap before resting lightly on the arms of the chair.
Twelve students. Small numbers. A chance to connect, to teach, to reclaim the trajectory I had once envisioned.
In a new school that was perfect in every way.
All of it should have made me feel at home.
But it didn’t.
Mrs. Alcott spoke softly, filling in details about supplies, the curriculum, and the schedule.
Her words were practical, comforting, exactly what I expected.
And yet, with each sentence, I felt a growing unrest inside me.
My mind kept drifting, intruding where it shouldn’t.
Ethan, Miles, Adrian, the way the kids had opened themselves to me, the mess, the noise, the wild moments of unplanned joy.
How was I supposed to ignore all of that?
I glanced down at the contract. My name printed neatly at the top, the future I had fought for, planned for, dreamed of.
I could sign it. I should sign it. The world I had known, the path I had been so determined to reclaim, waited for me right there.
But my heart didn’t move toward it. My heart wasn’t anywhere near this place.
A wave of realization hit me: this life I’d been chasing for so long—the one I thought I wanted—wasn’t mine anymore.
I closed my eyes for a moment, the office fading around me.
I saw the brownstone, the mess and the laughter, the tiny hands reaching for snacks, the soft warmth of a quiet moment with the kids, and the way Ethan’s gaze lingered too long, or Miles’ grin was too knowing, or Adrian’s teasing was layered with something that always got me going.
A part of me, the part that had lived by plans and timetables, screamed that I was abandoning my shot, that I was being reckless.
But another part—the part that had been quietly stirring for weeks, the part that had leaned into chaos and unpredictability and found joy there—pulled me toward a different kind of certainty.
I stood abruptly, and Mrs. Alcott looked up, startled. “Maren?”
“I can’t do this.”
Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked quickly down the hallway, out into the crisp afternoon air.
The doors swung closed behind me, muffling the quiet urgency of the office, leaving me alone on the sidewalk to consider what I’d just done.
I paused and looked back at the school, the sun catching the windows, the neat playground, the banners flapping lightly in the breeze.
A life I thought I wanted, all neatly arranged and waiting for me to take it.
A cab pulled up just then, and I slid into the backseat without thinking. The driver turned to me, eyebrows raised. “Where to?”
I hesitated, watching the school shrink in the rearview mirror. My breath caught. I’d been pushed out of a life of stability and predictability against my will. This whole time I thought I’d be better once I found my way back to exactly what I lost. But I’d been wrong.
A slow smile tugged at my lips. “Lumen Events offices. Seaport,” I said finally, voice firm.
My hand rested lightly on the door handle as the cab pulled away, the city stretching out before me, uncertain and wide open.
And for the first time in weeks, maybe in years, I felt the full, exhilarating weight of making my own choice.
I practically skidded into the Lumen Events conference room, heart hammering like I’d just crossed some invisible finish line. Miles and Adrian looked up from the sketches sprawled across the table, eyebrows lifted, the same synchronized question in their eyes: What just happened?
My walls, all the careful control I’d tried to hold onto, crumbled in that instant. Nothing else mattered. Not the contract I’d almost signed, not the life I thought I was supposed to want. Just them, right here, right now, and the impossible pull I’d finally decided to surrender to.