Chapter 2 Cole #2
I looked at Sarah. She was watching them too, her small shoulders dropping just a fraction. Her hands had gone still on the table.
I felt a hairline crack in my heart. A clean, sharp break right down the center.
Rebecca would have owned this day. My little sister would have been the mom covered in glitter and glue, making a magnificent mess and laughing the loudest. She'd have known exactly how to make a paper flower magical. She'd have turned this whole table into an explosion of creativity and joy.
"Uncle C?" Sarah's voice was very small. "Are we doing it wrong?"
"No, sweetheart." I reached over and squeezed her shoulder. "We're doing just fine."
But we weren't. I could see it in the careful way she arranged her materials, the glances she kept stealing at the other tables. At all those mothers with their easy competence and their matching outfits and their complete certainty about how to do this.
Steve's wedding ring caught the light as he reached for more paper.
I thought of another man, the one who should have been here.
The "lone wolf forestry surveyor" who'd charmed my sister during his three-month assignment in our area.
Turned out he was a family man from Michigan, living a careful double life.
When I'd tracked him down after Rebecca died, looking for any help with her orphaned daughter, I got to know him for who he was.
"Who is this? How did you get this number?"
"My name is Cole Brennan. I'm Rebecca's brother. She's dead." I hadn't known how else to say it. "She had a daughter. Your daughter. I need to—"
"Don't ever call this number again." His voice had gone ice-cold, barely audible. "I'm not risking my family for a kid I'm not even sure is mine."
The line had gone dead. I'd stood in my kitchen, Sarah asleep in a sling against my chest, and understood with perfect clarity: it was just us. The same way it had been just me and Rebecca, two kids grinding through the foster care system, finding our only solid ground in each other.
"Uncle C, you're squishing it."
I blinked, yanked back to the present. I'd been pressing a paper petal flat with my palm, my grip tightening without my noticing.
"I'm not squishing it. I'm... securing it."
"It's squished." She held up the crumpled evidence. "Like, really really squished."
"Sorry." That word was becoming a mantra.
Every torn edge, every sticky mishap, every ruined petal—I was fumbling in the dark.
I could keep her alive. I could make sure she had a roof, food, warm clothes, and safety.
But this? Creating a moment of simple, happy childhood? I was completely, hopelessly useless.
"Hey, Sarah."
I looked up. Ms. Reed had materialized beside us, kneeling gracefully so she was at Sarah's eye level. She didn't look at me with pity or amusement. Her attention was entirely, completely on my niece.
"That purple paper is beautiful," she said warmly. "It would make a perfect center for a flower. Would you like me to help you with it? I'd really love to."
The kindness in her voice wasn't performative. It was real, an offer from one person to another, no strings attached. Sarah's head swiveled to me, her eyes wide with a silent, hopeful question.
Is this okay? Can I say yes?
My throat tightened painfully. I nodded, forcing my lips into what I hoped resembled a grateful smile.
"Okay,"
Sarah breathed, and the tension seeped out of her small frame like water from a sponge.
For the next fifteen minutes, I was a spectator to a different kind of competence entirely. Ms. Reed’s hands were sure, capable, confident with the flimsy materials. She didn't take over, instead she guided, made suggestions, let Sarah lead.
"What if we curl this edge with the pencil? Like this, see?"
"Like a real flower!" Sarah's voice lifted with pure wonder.
"Exactly like a real flower. Nature's the best artist there is. We're just copying her work."
"Can we add more purple?"
"It's your flower, sweetheart. You can add whatever you want."
Ms. Reed laughed when Sarah dropped a sequin, calling it a "runaway jewel" and making a show of searching for it under the table. She praised every choice Sarah made, no matter how chaotic, turning the messy project into something collaborative and joyful.
And Sarah bloomed. There was no other word for it.
A lightness came over her. Just pure, unselfconscious joy I hadn't realized was missing from her usual quiet contentment.
She chattered, she giggled, she held up her increasingly elaborate flower with pride that made my chest ache in an entirely new way.
This was what she needed. Not just supervision, but this gentle, patient creativity. This warmth I simply couldn't provide.
"Mr. Brennan?" Ms. Reed’s voice pulled me back. "Would you like to add something? Sarah's been saving the centerpiece just for you."
I looked at the flower, then at my glue-smeared, clumsy hands. "I don't think that's—"
"Please, Uncle C?" Sarah held out a small purple circle, her eyes huge and hopeful. "You just have to stick it in the middle. It's the most important part."
"Just a dab of glue," Ms. Reed added, her tone gently encouraging. "Even happy accidents are welcome here."
I took the purple circle carefully. Applied glue, probably too much. Pressed it into the center of Sarah's paper flower with exaggerated care.
It stuck. Crooked, definitely off-center, but it stuck.
"Perfect," Sarah declared with complete satisfaction.
"It's crooked."
"That makes it special though." She looked up at Ms. Reed for confirmation. "Right, Ms. Reed?"
"Absolutely right." Ms. Reed’s smile was warm, and something in her expression shifted when her gaze moved to me. Softer. More open. "Imperfect things are usually the most beautiful ones."
I didn't know what to say to that. I wasn't good with words on a normal day, and something about this woman made my brain short-circuit completely.
"Thank you," I managed finally. "For helping her. For all of this."
"It's what I'm here for." She stood, brushing glitter from her knees. "You two make a good team, you know. Better than you think."
She moved away to help another student. I watched her go back into the middle of the classroom, still surprised at the easy way she navigated the chaos, the genuine warmth she offered each child.
The shadow still lived in her eyes when she thought no one was watching, but here, in this room full of noise and glitter and small disasters, she glowed like something luminous.
The event wound down in a cheerful, chaotic blur. Sarah clutched her flower like a trophy, like something precious, as we gathered her things and made our way toward the door.
"Mr. Brennan?" Ms. Reed caught us at the threshold, slightly breathless. "Sarah did wonderful work today. Really wonderful. You should be very proud."
"She's the talented one. I just provided moral support."
"She told me you taught her about patience. How you have to move slow and calm with the bees or they get upset and sting." Ms. Reed tilted her head thoughtfully. "Sounds like pretty good life advice, actually."
"Bees are easier than glue sticks," I said. "Bees make sense."
She laughed. That surprised, warm sound again that did something strange to my heart. "I believe it. Have a good afternoon, both of you."
"You too, ma'am."
"Emma," she corrected gently. "Please. You can call me Emma."
“Emma.” I nodded, not trusting my voice to behave.
We stepped out into the cool, quiet air of the parking lot. The silence felt like a relief and, strangely, like a loss.
The drive up the mountain was peaceful. Sarah held her flower like it was made of spun glass, watching the trees blur past her window.
"Uncle C?"
"Yeah, kiddo?"
"Ms. Reed is really nice."
I kept my eyes on the winding road. "Yeah. She really is."
"She smells like cookies. And something else." Sarah paused, considering. "Like that soft stuff. The one we don't use for laundry."
I didn't have a response to that. But I thought about it, about her, about cookies and something soft, I pondered the entire way up the mountain.
Hours later, in my cabin, the silence was profound and familiar.
Sarah was asleep, the paper flower placed carefully on her nightstand where she could see it first thing in the morning.
The wood stove crackled steadily. I sat in my worn armchair, a book on beekeeping open but completely unread on my lap.
I couldn't stop thinking about her.
She wasn’t just Sarah's stories anymore, about a teacher who read with funny voices, who always had cartoon band-aids ready, who'd patiently helped her sound out the word 'mountain' six times until she got it right.
She was what I'd seen today with my own eyes.
The warmth. The quiet, steady strength. The way she'd looked at Sarah and known exactly what my niece needed without being told.
And those eyes. Hazel, bright, holding something heavy and unspoken underneath the warmth. A grief that felt achingly familiar.
She intrigued me. A puzzle I hadn't expected to find in a second-grade classroom.
Normally, I waited outside when picking Sarah up.
I'd lean against my truck, a good twenty paces from the classroom door.
It was a safe distance for everyone involved.
My size intimidated people. My permanent scowl didn't help matters.
Teachers gave me a wide, polite berth; kids sometimes stared or whispered.
I didn't know how to make small talk about playground politics or homework assignments or whatever normal parents discussed.
It was easier and safer to just stay outside.
But tomorrow will be different.
Tomorrow, I'd walk right up to that classroom door.
I'd go inside. I'd figure out something halfway intelligent to say, the weather, maybe, or ask how Sarah was doing in reading.
I'd probably fumble through it badly. Terrify half the children.
Come off as awkward or too intense, or just plain strange.
But I'd see her again. I'd hear that warm voice. Maybe learn what story lived behind those shadows in her eyes, what weight she carried so gracefully.
The fire crackled, sending orange sparks spiraling up the chimney and into the dark. Outside, wind moved through the pines with that familiar rushing whisper that usually settled me into peace.
Tonight, it wasn't quite enough.
I thought of Emma Reed standing in that bright classroom, glitter catching the light on her wrist, saying imperfect things are usually the most beautiful.
I thought of Sarah's face transforming when Emma knelt beside her.
I thought of that laugh. Surprised, genuine, and unguarded, like she hadn't expected joy to find her there.
Something stirred in my chest. Something I hadn't felt in years, maybe ever. Not just curiosity, though there was plenty of that.
Hope. Small and unfamiliar and probably foolish.
But there it was anyway, stubborn as a weed pushing through cracked concrete, refusing to be sensible.
I closed the book I wasn't reading and stared into the fire until the embers burned low.
Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.