Page 2 of After the Rain

Looking at our reflection in the mirror, I saw a father and son who were making it work, even if we looked a little rough around the edges. Cooper's hair stuck up in three directions despite my efforts, and I had coffee stains on my polo shirt, but we were fed, dressed, and mostly ready to face the day.

The reflection reminded me of something Sarah had said during one of our last real conversations as a married couple. "You always look like you're performing being happy instead of actually being happy." At the time, I'd brushed it off as stress from work, from the pressures of parenting, from the million small compromises that wore down any marriage. But now, looking at myself—really looking—I wondered if she'd seen something I'd been too afraid to examine.

"Shoes!" I said, remembering the last crucial element.

Cooper ran to his room and came back with his sneakers on the wrong feet. I started to correct him, then checked the time on my phone. We were already running late, and honestly, nobody at kindergarten was going to judge a kid for mixed-up shoes.

"Looks good, buddy. Let's hit the road."

I grabbed my travel coffee mug, the architectural plans that now bore a coffee stain, my wallet, and the keys.

As we headed out the door, I caught sight of my reflection in the hallway mirror and realized I was still wearing my wedding ring.

I stopped, holding Cooper's lunch bag and permission slip, staring at the gold band that had felt like a natural part of my hand for fifteen years. Now it looked foreign, like evidence of a life I'd been trying on rather than living.

"Daddy? We're going to be late," Cooper called from the truck.

"Just a second, buddy."

I set everything down and worked the ring off my finger. It came away easier than I'd expected, leaving a pale band of skin that had been hidden from the sun. For a moment, I held it in my palm, this symbol of promises I'd meant to keep but had never truly understood.

I slipped it into my pocket instead of putting it back on. The absence felt strange but not wrong—like taking off shoes that had never quite fit.

I grabbed our things and headed to the truck, where Cooper was already buckled into his booster seat and chattering about his plans for the day.

"And then after snack time, Mr. Mitchell said we're going to work on our letters, and I want to show him my Lego spaceship. Do you think he'll like it?"

"I think he'll love it," I said, and meant it. Any teacher who could make Cooper this excited about school deserved appreciation.

The drive to Cedar Falls Elementary took twelve minutes on a good day, fifteen when I got stuck behind Mrs. Henderson's ancient Buick. Today I lucked out and hit mostly green lights, pulling into the school parking lot with three minutes to spare.

The morning drop-off zone was controlled chaos. Soccer moms in pristine SUVs with organized console compartments navigated around dads in business suits who were checking their phones while their kids gathered backpacks and lunch boxes. Everyone seemed to have their routine down to a science.

I felt like an impostor in my wrinkled polo shirt, architectural plans threatening to spill from the passenger seat every time I took a corner too fast. But Cooper didn't seem to notice my frazzled state. He was too busy scanning the sidewalk for his teacher.

"There's Mr. Mitchell!" he announced, practically bouncing in his booster seat.

I followed his gaze and saw the blonde teacher standing at the kindergarten entrance, greeting students with what looked like genuine enthusiasm. He was crouched down to talk to a little girl who looked like she might cry, his voice too quiet for me to hear but his body language radiating patience and kindness.

Cooper was out of his booster seat and halfway to the sidewalk before I'd even turned off the engine. I grabbed his lunch bag and permission slip, locked the truck, and hurried to catch up.

"Cooper! Wait up, buddy."

He slowed down just enough for me to fall into step beside him, then immediately picked up the pace again as we approached his classroom. Mr. Mitchell looked up from his conversation with the tearful little girl, who was now smiling and skipping toward the door.

"Good morning, Cooper," he said, his voice warm and familiar. "And good morning, Mr. Harrison."

Up close, he looked even younger than I'd remembered. Maybe early thirties, with wire-rimmed glasses that he adjusted when he smiled. He had the kind of easy confidence with children that suggested natural teaching ability rather than just training.

"Morning," I managed, suddenly aware that I looked like I'd been through a minor disaster.

Cooper launched into an excited recap of his weekend Lego project, describing the spaceship he'd built with the kind oftechnical detail that made me proud. Mr. Mitchell listened with the attention he might give to a colleague describing a major architectural discovery.

"That sounds like some serious engineering," he said when Cooper paused for breath. "I'd love to see a picture if you want to bring one tomorrow."

"Really? You like building things too?"

"I love building things. Not as professionally as your dad, but it's one of my favorite hobbies."

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