When the meeting ended, she stood and extended her hand. “Thank you for coming in. Now that I understand the context, I can better support him. We’ll help Logan find his footing again.”
I reached out automatically, my mind replaying the image of my son staring at his bedroom ceiling the night before.
The moment our palms touched, my breath caught.
A scar crossed her hand, diagonal and jagged, unmistakable.
Without thinking, my thumb brushed against it.
Suddenly, I was no longer standing in a classroom. I was in a damp basement in 2007. The air was thick with the smell of canned soup and industrial cleaner. I had been volunteering at a community kitchen twice a month while undergoing IVF, trying to fill the long, hollow hours between appointments and disappointments.
That was where I first saw her.
She had been sixteen, thin and pale, folded into herself on a metal chair near the storage shelves. One hand clutched her chest. The other was wrapped in a blood-soaked dish towel.
“She tried to open a can with a screwdriver,” someone had whispered. “It slipped.”
I knelt in front of her. “Hi. I’m Harper. Can I take a look?”
She did not speak, but she nodded. When I unwrapped the towel, I saw the cut. It was deep and angry, slicing across her palm.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I asked.
“Aria,” she whispered.
I Met with My Son’s Math Teacher About His Grades — Then I Noticed Something That Made My Knees Give Way
