At dinner one night, Ethan mentioned it again.
“The nice lady says my drawings are really good, Mommy.”
I laughed, twirling spaghetti onto his fork.
“What nice lady, honey?”
“The one who waits with me.”
Ethan mentioned it again.
“Oh, sweetheart. Is she one of your friends’ grandmas?” I asked.
My son shrugged, more focused on Biscuit begging under the table. I filed it away as imagination, the way kids invent friends out of shadows and sunshine. I didn’t ask again.
I did remember to check his backpack that night, though. Tucked inside was the little book I’d packed for him on his first day of school. Our address, my phone number, and his allergies were all written in my neatest handwriting, just in case.
“Is she one of your friends’ grandmas?”
“You still remember your important book, buddy?”
“Yep. It’s in my bag, Mommy.”
“Good boy. Never lose that, okay?”
“Okay, Mommy.”
I zipped it back into the front pocket and told myself I was doing enough. That being a little late sometimes didn’t mean I was a bad mother. That Ethan was happy, and the fridge was covered in proof.
“Never lose that, okay?”
***
Then, on a Tuesday afternoon, while I was picking up Ethan after school, Ms. Carter stopped me.
“Hi, Rachel. Do you have a minute?”
“Of course,” I said before leaving Ethan with another teacher who was waiting with the children for their parents to pick them up.
I had no idea that a single stack of crayon drawings was about to unravel everything I thought I knew about my son’s afternoons.
Ms. Carter stopped me.
***
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