Leah
“If you can hear my voice, touch your nose. If you can hear my voice—”
“Touch your toes,” my class recites before dutifully tapping their noses before bending down to touch their shoes. When they stand back up, I have their focus—well, for at least a few more seconds. They know what’s about to happen. The room practically vibrates with anticipation.
“Are we listening, friends?” I cup my ears, glancing around the room, making sure I can see twenty-two pairs of eyes. “It is time … for … dismissal—”
The room breaks out into pandemonium. It's as if the promise of going home unleashes their inner mogwai—do not feed after midnight.
Their giggles are feral, their sweet little voices crescendo into chaotic squeals, and in general, they act like a pack of rabid squirrels.
Liliana is showing us her cartwheel—again—while Tamika insists on taking off her socks.
Across the room, Ryland and Charlie are wearing their backpacks on their chests and are now charging at one another like a pair of sumo wrestlers.
Grady, however, stands quietly in the car-rider line, his oversized backpack nearly swallowing his small frame whole.
He absently tugs at his messy blond hair, nudging his glasses higher on his nose.
As his classmates buzz around him, Grady retreats further into himself, his eyes trained to the ground.
It’s been a few weeks since I met with his mother about the challenges he’s been facing in school.
Unfortunately, Grady continues to struggle with retaining information we’ve covered repeatedly, and while his classmates are becoming more confident with letters and sight words, he still hesitates when asked to spell his own name.
He needs to be evaluated. I’ve contacted Tiffany twice since Grady’s altercation last week, and I even emailed her over the weekend with no response.
I may need to contact Nick.
Eventually.
As a last-ditch effort before I need to escalate things, I slipped a letter into Grady’s take-home folder this afternoon, hoping we can get the ball rolling.
By some act of God—or possibly empty promises of disappointing me—I manage to wrangle my class into a single-file line and get them where they need to be.
I join the rest of the dismissal team outside for car rider duty.
Chelsea and I take our usual spots alongside a handful of other teachers, scanning name tags and helping students identify their vehicles as the pickup line snakes through the parking lot.
Every few seconds, another car rolls forward, prompting a chorus of goodbyes as we ensure each student makes it into the correct vehicle safely.
“Suarez!” Chelsea hollers, twirling her lanyard in her hands before turning back to me. “Did Rachel decide on a theme for the family and friends baby shower?”
“She decided on Noah's Ark. Think soft, whimsical animals with gingham accents.”
“Aww, now that's cute,” Chelsea coos as she opens the van door for the Suarez brothers and waves them off. “If you need my die-cutter, it's all yours.”
“Have a good night!” I shut a car door. “I'd love that actually, if you don't mind.”
“That's why I offered.” She winks.
I wave at a parent driving by as I continue. “We went to the craft store over the weekend and picked out dozens of adorable coordinating papers and ribbons that were on sale. I think it's going to be super cute.”
She wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Of course, it is. You are so crafty and creative. Your shower is going to be so much better than the one those Bible biddies are throwing.”
I snort. “It's not a competition.”
“Regardless, I'm rooting for you.” She squeezes me before slowly walking backward, motioning for the cars to pull forward. “Shame on them, by the way.”
“Bye, Kensington. Bye, Fabian.” I wave to more kids being buckled in by their parents. “It's fine, Chels.”
“Not allowing you to help with your sister-in-law’s baby shower?”
“But—”
“Sister-in-law’s … baby shower.” She enunciates the words slowly. “You have more of a right than those women. Plus …” Chelsea flashes a sympathetic grin. “The whole baby thing. It just seems heartless for a group of people claiming to be so full of God's love.”
Rachel and I have known each other since we were babies ourselves. We did everything together: church conferences, mission trips, revivals. She was so much like a sister to me—and then she actually became my sister.
But I was the one who wanted a baby—not her.
A woman's highest calling was to be a wife and mother—at least that's what church culture taught us. Be fruitful and multiply. However, saying that to someone with a chronic condition that can affect fertility is a bit of a slap in the face.
Sure, many women with endometriosis go on to have healthy, uncomplicated pregnancies. Unfortunately, with the amount of scar tissue I have in my abdomen along with the removal of one of my ovaries, for me, naturally conceiving would literally be a miracle.
That didn't stop my ex from trying.
When my brother and Rachel surprised our family with the baby news, I was nothing short of excited for them. I love them both fiercely, and my first niece or nephew will be the absolute apple of my eye.
Still, it hurt.
I'm not supposed to admit that. It's not like they did this to spite me. Heck, I'm not even in a spot to get pregnant right now even if I wanted to.
But still, it hurt.
Motherhood was always a someday for me. Someday I'd surprise my husband with the news. Someday we'd listen to our baby's heartbeat together. Someday we'd decorate a nursery together and laugh at our terrible paint job— it was okay because someday, someone would call me Mama.
Someday never came, but it did for someone else who never wanted it in the first place.
Rachel has since changed her mind and is genuinely excited about the baby, and I couldn't be happier for her.
But there are moments—small, selfish moments I'm not particularly proud of—when the whole thing feels painfully unfair.
The steady rumble of idling engines pulls me back to the present. The pickup line has shortened considerably, and with each departing vehicle, the crowd of students gathered along the sidewalk grows a little thinner.
“Foley! Hankin!” Chelsea hollers while motioning the cars to pull forward. “Are you working tonight?”
I smile. “I am. Are you going to pay me a visit?”
“One of these days, I will—especially if Mr. Wonderful shows up,” she jokes, punching her fist into her palm.
I groan. “Listen, Chels, I have to tell you something about—”
“Nick!” Chelsea shouts, waving at a large Chevy truck. She quickly walks over to it with an extra bounce in her step.
That truck. I know that black truck. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I peer into the cab—and my stomach nearly bottoms out.
Nick?
Nick Crawford?
How the heck does Chelsea know Nick?
“Nick's here!” Grady squeals, waving to his dad. He jumps up from the other students, grabbing my hand and pulling me along behind him. As I help him climb up into the back seat, he buckles himself up into a pink booster seat.
“You got it, partner?” Nick turns around.
Grady concentrates hard, slowly connecting his belt straps together. Metal finally clicks. He looks up pridefully, patting the safety harness.
“Good job.” Nick glances back at me, giving me a casual nod. “You doing alright?” he asks softly, a hint of mischief in his voice.
“Just fine. Thanks,” I say quietly, matching his tone.
He's a parent, Leah. Don't.
“Oh good! Julian found the booster seat,” Chelsea calls out from behind me. “It's a pretty easy install, plus the kids don't have to wrestle so much with the belts.”
He gives her a crooked smile. “It's perfect, Chels. I'll get it back to you as soon as—”
She waves her hand. “Oh please. Lizzie outgrew that thing a couple of years ago. I'm glad it's getting some use.”
Nick turns back to me, and good gracious, that dimple is such a menace. A man shouldn't be so beautiful. It's an unfair advantage.
“Sorry for the sudden change in dismissal plans, ladies. Grady's mom asked me … oh—” Nick glances at the clock on the dash—“about an hour ago if I could pick Grady up a few days a week … starting today.”
“Really?” Grady chirps from the backseat.
Nick chuckles. “Really, partner. Just made it official in the front office.” He points toward a laminated placard hanging from his rearview mirror that signifies a car-rider pickup.
“Well, we gotta keep the line moving,” Chelsea says. “Good seeing you, Nick.”
“You too, Chels.” He glances back at me, his smile widening as he lowers his voice. “I'll be seeing you soon, Ms. Harrison.”
Butterflies pirouette in my belly as my cheeks heat. “Goodbye, Mr. Crawford.”
I wave to Grady, shut the door, and quickly make my way back to the curb, deciding that a little distance is probably in everyone's best interest.
"I'm so proud of him,” Chelsea says, waving to a few students. “He's really stepping up to the plate.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
She leans in closer conspiratorially. “He literally found out about Grady a couple of weeks ago. Like, he literally had no idea Grady's mom was even pregnant.”
Shame rests heavy on my chest as I watch Nick's truck turn out onto the street and disappear.
‘You think I'm a deadbeat.’
His accusation is valid. I was so focused on protecting Grady that I'd filled in the blanks myself. It never occurred to me that there might be pieces of the story I couldn't see.
Gosh, I don't want to be that person.
The irony isn't lost on me. I know better than most how painful it is to have people decide who you are without bothering to learn the truth. How can I expect grace from others if I'm unwilling to extend it myself?
“How long have you known him?” I ask.
“Too long,” she jokes. “He and Julian were roommates in medical school. Why?” She nudges me with a wink. “You interested?”