Chapter 8
Lauren said pickup was at 3:15 and if we weren't in line by 3:00 we'd be parked out by the county road. I didn't argue. I followed her and Sophie out to her old Civic and realized I didn't know where Sophie went to school. Nine months I'd pictured the same house, same blanket, same porch light. They'd moved forward without me.
Little Steps sat back off Main in a low brick building with a fenced playground. Lauren pulled into the pickup lane and cut the engine. The parking lot was already half full, moms and dads leaning against minivans, teachers in puffy vests holding clipboards at the sidewalk.
"You sure you want to come up?" Lauren asked, checking me in the rearview. "You can wait here if it's too much."
I looked at Sophie in her car seat, her light brown hair pulled back, her little sneakers kicking. She'd changed out of the white pajamas with the purple cuffs this morning, but she'd dragged the light patterned blanket to the car and folded it on her lap.
"I've waited nine months to walk her to a door," I said. "I'm walking."
Inside the lobby smelled like crayons and disinfectant. A cork board by the office had class photos taped up, and there I was. Lauren had taped a 4x6 on Sophie's cubby — me in uniform from last spring, duffel at my feet, grinning before I left. The photo was faded from the sun through the window.
Ms. Elena spotted us first. She did a double take, clipboard dropping to her side.
"Oh my goodness — Sergeant Reyes?" she said. "We didn't know you were home. Lauren, you didn't tell us."
Lauren smiled tight. "Got in late last night."
Ms. Elena stared at the photo then back at me, same uniform, same short hair, only now I was really there breathing in her hallway. "Sophie talks about you every circle time," she said, softer. "We kept your picture up just like you were here."
Sophie didn't wait for permission. She stepped forward and took my hand with both of hers and announced, loud enough for the whole lobby, "This is my daddy. He came home."
A few parents in the pickup line turned. A dad with a toddler on his hip stared. Two moms by the cubbies whispered and smiled that careful smile adults give to soldiers they don't know what to say to. Sophie heard the attention and pressed closer. Her grip tightened until her knuckles went white.
"It's okay, sweetheart," I whispered, and crouched so I was eye level. My knees popped. She let go of one hand just long enough to wrap her arm around my neck, her cheek against my shoulder, and stayed there.
Lauren touched my back. "She's good, Daniel. She's just showing you off."
We moved down the hall to sign the pickup sheet. Ms. Elena slid it across the counter. Sophie's name on line twelve, Lauren's neat signature from Monday and Tuesday. And under emergency contacts, two names. First: Lauren Reyes — Mom — cell. Second: Diane Mercer — Grandma — cell. No second parent. No me.
I stared at it a second too long.
Ms. Elena noticed. "We update those every August," she said quickly. "We can add you right now if you want. We had to list someone local while you were deployed. Diane's been our backup all year, she picks up when Lauren's stuck at work."
"Yeah," I said. "Of course." My voice sounded flat even to me. "That makes sense."
It did make sense. That was the part that sat heavy. While I was gone, Diane had been the number they called when Sophie had a fever at nap time. Diane knew the pickup code, the allergy form, the cubby number. I didn't know the pickup time until twenty minutes ago.
Lauren picked up the pen, hesitated, then wrote my name and number in small print under Diane's. Her handwriting wobbled.
On the way back to the car, Sophie walked between us, one hand in mine, one in Lauren's, her blanket tucked under Lauren's arm now. The other parents watched us pass. Sophie, who'd been clinging a minute before, looked up at them and said again, quieter, "My daddy came home," like she needed them to log it.
I squeezed her hand. I didn't know what else to do. In the parking lot, I understood in a concrete way what Lauren's note had meant on the kitchen counter last night — she'd moved Sophie to Diane's three days a week because she couldn't cover the extension alone, and the school had just paperworked that life into place. I wasn't on the form because I wasn't here. Fixing it would take more than a signature.
At the Civic, Sophie let go to climb into her seat herself. She paused and reached back for me, and I lifted her in and buckled the strap. She watched my hands the whole time, making sure they'd stay.
May you like
Lauren shut the door and looked at me over the roof of the car. "We'll talk tonight," she said low. "About Diane's. About what next."
I nodded. The lot was emptying, kids spilling onto the sidewalk with backpacks almost bigger than them. We'd made it through pickup without a scene, but I felt more like a visitor than I had on the porch last night.
