Page 14 of After the Rain

For the first time since my divorce, I was excited about getting to know someone better.

And that someone happened to be a man with blue eyes and a careful smile who made me feel like I might be more interesting than I'd given myself credit for.

The thought should have scared me more than it did. Instead, it filled me with a cautious hope I hadn't felt in years.

I fell asleep thinking about the way Ezra had looked when he talked about teaching, like he'd found his calling. I envied that sense of purpose, that clarity about what mattered.

Maybe it was time to find out what mattered to me.

FOUR

BUILDING BLOCKS

EZRA

The family tree worksheet looked like it had been through a war zone.

Cooper stood at my desk during Friday afternoon cleanup, his backpack dragging behind him like a dead weight, staring down at the crumpled paper with the kind of defeat that only six-year-olds could manage. The assignment that should have been simple had become a battlefield, and Cooper was losing.

"Mr. Mitchell," he said, his voice small and frustrated. "I can't make my family tree work right. Mommy and Daddy don't live in the same house anymore, and I don't know how to draw that."

My chest tightened. The damn worksheet was designed for 1950s nuclear families, complete with a house drawn at the base and neat little branches for Mom, Dad, and kids. No consideration for divorce, single parents, or any of the dozen different ways modern families actually looked.

Traditional assignments like this were a minefield for half my students. I made another mental note to talk to the curriculum committee about more inclusive alternatives.

I knelt down to Cooper's level, examining the paper he'd worked so hard on. He'd started to draw his parents on the same branch, then erased it. Started again with separate branches, then erased that too. The worksheet was a mess of eraser marks and frustrated pencil scratches.

"You know what?" I said, smoothing out the paper. "Family trees can look lots of different ways. Some have branches that spread out, some have strong roots in different places. What matters is all the people who love you."

Cooper's face brightened slightly, but I could see he was still struggling with the concept.

"But the worksheet says?—"

"The worksheet is just one way to show families. We can make yours better."

The classroom was emptying out as parents arrived for pickup, and I could see Wade through the window, walking across the parking lot with that slightly hurried gait that had become familiar over the past few weeks. Cooper saw him too and suddenly looked even more deflated.

"I don't want Daddy to think I can't do my homework."

"Cooper, your dad would never think that. Let's talk to him together, okay?"

Wade appeared in the doorway, and I watched his face immediately focus on Cooper's subdued mood. It was one of the things I'd noticed about Wade—he was tuned in to his son's emotional state in a way that spoke to genuine care rather than obligation.

"Hey, buddy," Wade said, crouching down to Cooper's level. "How was your day?"

Cooper held up the crumpled worksheet. "I can't do my family tree. It's broken."

Wade's face cycled through a series of emotions—guilt, frustration, and finally determination. He looked at me over Cooper's head, and I saw the question there:How do I help him with this?

"The assignment assumes a traditional family structure," I explained, keeping my voice gentle. "Cooper's having trouble figuring out how to represent his family now that you and his mom live in different houses."

Wade ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I was learning to recognize as his processing mode. "I want to help him, but I don't want to make it more confusing."

I opened my mouth to suggest some strategies they could try at home, then stopped. This was exactly the kind of situation that called for individualized support, the kind of extra attention that made teaching worthwhile. But it was also the kind of attention that could be misinterpreted, especially by parents who were already suspicious of my motives.

The smart thing would be to send them home with some general suggestions and maintain professional distance.

"If you'd like," I heard myself saying instead, "I could come over tomorrow morning and help Cooper brainstorm different ways to represent his family. Sometimes a fresh perspective helps."

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