On the corner of the kitchen counter sat the silver-framed photograph of Emma when she was three months old, wearing a yellow knit cap that slipped down over her eyes. It was my favorite picture, taken on a rare sunny afternoon in our old backyard.
I moved the frame two inches to the left, aligning it with the edge of the microwave, then wiped a speck of flour from the glass with my thumb.
“We have plenty of apples,” I said. “And your father is picking you up on Friday.”
Emma reached into her backpack, pulling out a crumpled sheet of white paper.
“I need this signed before we get to the drop-off lane,” she said.
I took the slip, smoothing out the edges with the palm of my hand.
The damp yellow leaves on the school sidewalk smelled like old paper as I pulled my sedan into the drop-off lane behind a white minivan with a dented bumper.
I recognized the dent on the rear panel immediately, Sarah always parked a little too close to the yellow curb when she brought Emma on Darren’s days. It was a brand-new vehicle, pristine except for that one minor scrape near the taillight.
Emma was out of the door before I had the car fully in park, her pink backpack bouncing against her shoulder as she ran toward the heavy glass doors of Oakwood Elementary. She didn’t look back to wave, her sneakers squeaking on the wet concrete.
Mabel, Emma’s fourth-grade teacher, stood by the entrance wearing a thick wool cardigan and her signature gold-rimmed reading glasses.
She peered over the frames as I walked up the concrete steps, her hand already reaching into her canvas tote bag.
“Good morning, Jen,” Mabel said, her voice carrying that formal, quiet rhythm she used for parent-teacher conferences. “I was hoping I would catch you instead of the nanny.”
