“It wasn’t,” I admitted. “Not really. I’ve tried tutoring and counseling, everything I can think of. But when he’s with me, he just shuts down.”
She nodded slowly, like someone who understood that some wounds do not show up on report cards.
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.
