Chapter 3
By Wednesday morning, I had learned to keep my phone facedown.
It still vibrated against the kitchen counter while I packed worksheets into my tote bag. I didn’t look at the screen until I was in my car, with the engine running and the garage door lifting overhead.
Dad had sent a photograph of the basement stairs, cluttered with folded boxes and a plastic bin of baby clothes.
Under it, he’d written: Please be home by four. Martha has an appointment. We need to go over Thursday and Friday.
I stared at the message until the car’s heater blew warm air against my hands. My first class started in forty minutes. At four, I was supposed to be at school helping my students finish a reading display before the principal walked through the hallways. I had promised the eighth graders I’d stay late, and they had already cut out paper leaves with their names on them.
I typed, I have school responsibilities, then erased it.
Instead, I wrote: I’ll see what I can do.
The lie sat on the screen, small and obedient.
At school, I made it through first period by moving from desk to desk and pretending I hadn’t slept badly. My cardigan caught on the corner of a student’s chair, and when I bent to free it, my phone vibrated again in my pocket.
Martha: It’s not babysitting if it’s family.
I didn’t answer.
During my planning period, I found a new schedule taped to the inside of my classroom cabinet. The paper listed Thursday from 3:30 to 7:00, Friday from 3:30 to 6:00, and Saturday morning beneath my name. Dad’s handwriting filled the margins with notes about feeding times and errands.
I stood there with one hand on the cabinet door.
No one had asked me. They had simply written my availability into the plan and waited for me to object.
At 3:12, I was carrying the last stack of construction paper toward the hallway when Dad called. I watched his name flash across my phone. Behind me, two students were arguing over where to place a paper tree trunk, and the principal’s assistant was already making her way down the corridor.
I silenced the call.
Then I missed the display walk-through.
The principal didn’t say anything when she passed my classroom later, but she paused beside the unfinished bulletin board. One of the paper leaves had fallen to the floor. I picked it up after she left and smoothed the crease with my thumb.
“You okay?”
Daniel stood in the doorway holding a stack of quizzes. He taught science two rooms down and had a habit of appearing quietly, as if he didn’t want to interrupt the air around people.
“I’m fine,” I said.
His eyes moved to the bulletin board, then to the phone in my hand. He didn’t ask who had called.
“I can stay for ten minutes,” he said. “If you want another pair of hands.”
“That’s not your job.”
“No. But I’m already here.”
He set the quizzes on a desk and began sorting the paper leaves by color. He didn’t make a production of helping. He didn’t offer sympathy or tell me I looked tired. He just reached for the tape while I positioned the branches.
For ten minutes, the room became ordinary again.
When we finished, Daniel stepped back and studied the display. “The crooked ones make it look less like a brochure.”
“That was the students’ artistic vision.”
“Then they’re ahead of most adults.”
I almost smiled. My phone vibrated again.
Dad: Four means four. Don’t make this difficult.
Daniel saw my expression change, but he looked away before I could feel watched.
In the parking lot, the sky had turned the pale gray of an old dish towel. My car was parked beneath a light that flickered whenever the wind moved through the wires. I unlocked the door, then stopped when Daniel called my name.
He stood several spaces away, one hand in his coat pocket.
“I’m not trying to pry,” he said. “You don’t have to explain anything.”
I waited.
“My neighbor is moving out of a two-bedroom place near the county road. It’s not fancy, but the landlord is reasonable, and the second room is small enough that the rent might be manageable if you wanted a roommate.”
The offer landed harder than an offer of money would have. Money would have made me defensive. Information gave me somewhere to look.
“I’m not looking for a roommate,” I said, though I wasn’t sure that was true.
“Okay.”
“And I don’t need anyone to fix anything.”
“I didn’t think you did.”
The wind pushed a strand of hair across my cheek. I tucked it behind my ear and looked toward the school entrance, where the last buses were pulling away.
“Do you have the landlord’s number?”
Daniel reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded receipt with a name and phone number written on the back. He held it out but didn’t step closer.
“You can throw that away,” he said. “You can call and decide it’s not right. Or you can keep it for six months.”
I took the paper.
Our fingers didn’t touch. I noticed that, and so did he. His restraint made the small space between us feel deliberate rather than awkward.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome.”
Dad called again before I reached my car. This time I answered.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Leaving school.”
“You said you’d be home.”
“I said I’d see what I could do.”
There was a pause, followed by the soft scrape of paper on his end. I imagined the spreadsheet still lying somewhere on the coffee table, its neat rows waiting to turn my time into a charge.
“Martha needs you tonight,” he said. “We’re counting on you.”
I looked down at the folded number in my hand.
“I have work to finish.”
“You live here, Abby.”
The sentence was quiet. That made it worse.
“I know where I live,” I said, and ended the call before my voice could break.
I sat in the driver’s seat without starting the engine. Daniel’s car rolled past the end of the row, then slowed. He didn’t wave or turn around. He gave me the privacy he had promised without ever saying the word.
At home, Dad would be waiting for an answer about Thursday and Friday. For the first time, I had something else waiting too: a phone number, a possible address, and a choice that belonged only to me.
May you like
I folded the receipt twice and put it behind my driver’s license.
Then I started the car.
