Page 5 of After the Rain

"Mr. Mitchell is an excellent teacher," I said firmly. "Cooper is learning and happy. That's all that matters to me."

Mrs. Fletcher looked taken aback by my tone. "Of course, dear. I'm just saying that some parents might want to be... aware."

After she left, I sat in the booth picking at my sandwich and trying to process what had just happened. The idea that Cooper's teacher might face discrimination based on gossip and assumptions made me sick. Whatever Mr. Mitchell's personal life looked like, it had nothing to do with his ability to teach kindergarten.

The afternoon dragged by in a haze of client calls and paperwork. By three-thirty, I was parked outside Cedar Falls Elementary, watching the organized chaos of dismissal and thinking about Mrs. Fletcher's warning.

Cooper emerged from Mr. Mitchell's classroom with his backpack properly secured on both shoulders and a stack of papers clutched in his hand. I watched as his teacher made sureeach child connected with their pickup person, his attention to detail evident in the way he tracked every kid until they were safely with their parent or guardian.

"Daddy!" Cooper ran over to the truck, practically vibrating with excitement. "Look what I made!"

He handed me a crayon drawing of our house, complete with stick figures labeled in his careful kindergarten handwriting: "Me," "Daddy," and "Mr. Mitchell."

I stared at the picture, surprised by the inclusion of his teacher in what was clearly meant to be a family portrait.

"This is really good, buddy. But why is Mr. Mitchell in the picture?"

Cooper shrugged with six-year-old logic. "Because he's important."

Before I could ask what that meant, Mr. Mitchell appeared at my truck window. "Sorry to interrupt, but Cooper forgot his library book."

He handed a picture book through the window, giving me a friendly smile. "Thanks," I managed.

"No problem. Oh, and Cooper, I love your family picture. I'm honored to make it into the portrait."

His response was warm and genuine, with no hint of awareness about the conversations that had apparently been happening among some parents. Looking at him now, I couldn't imagine anyone seeing him as anything other than a dedicated teacher who clearly cared about his students.

"Mr. Mitchell helped me with my letters today," Cooper announced from his booster seat. "And he said my spaceship drawing showed 'engineering excellence.'"

"High praise from an expert," I said, appreciating how the teacher encouraged Cooper's interests.

"Cooper has real talent for spatial thinking. You should be proud."

Other parents were approaching with questions and comments, and I realized I'd been lingering longer than necessary.

"We should let you get to the rest of your students," I said, starting the engine.

"Have a good evening, Cooper. See you tomorrow, Mr. Harrison."

As we drove home, Cooper chattered about his day, mentioning Mr. Mitchell at least a dozen times. His teacher had helped him with a math problem, complimented his artwork, and listened to his story about building rockets with Lego. It was clear that in the two weeks since school started, Mr. Mitchell had become a significant figure in Cooper's world.

That evening, after Cooper's bath and bedtime routine, I sat in my quiet kitchen with a beer and the day's mail. Bills, promotional flyers, and a wedding invitation from a college friend - addressed to "Wade and Sarah Harrison."

Seeing our names coupled like that felt like looking at artifacts from someone else's life. Had there ever been a time when being part of "Wade and Sarah" felt natural? When the idea of forever with her seemed not just possible but inevitable?

I thought about our wedding day, how happy everyone had been, how right it had all seemed. Sarah in her white dress, me in my rented tux, promising to love each other until death do us part. We'd meant those words, I was sure of that. But somewhere along the way, we'd stopped being partners and started being actors in a play about marriage.

The worst part was how relieved I'd felt when the physical intimacy between us had gradually faded to nothing. I'd told myself it was normal, that married couples went through phases, that we were just tired from work and parenting. Sarah never complained, never pushed, and I'd been grateful for that space.Too grateful, maybe. What kind of husband feels relief when his wife stops wanting him?

The divorce had been Sarah's idea, but I'd felt nothing but relief when she brought it up. Not sadness, not anger, just the bone-deep exhaustion of pretending to be someone I wasn't.

But who was I, really? If I wasn't Sarah's husband, if I wasn't playing the role of the perfect family man, what was left?

I was Cooper's dad, obviously. That was the most important part of my identity, the one thing I was determined not to screw up. But beyond that?

I found myself thinking about the afternoon pickup, how Mr. Mitchell had taken time to compliment Cooper's artwork and make him feel special. It was the kind of attention to detail that went beyond professional duty. Cooper was lucky to have a teacher who genuinely cared about his students.

The thought of small-minded parents making trouble for someone who was clearly good at their job made me angry. Whatever gossip was floating around about Mr. Mitchell's personal life, it had nothing to do with his ability to teach. Cooper was thriving in his class, and that was what mattered.

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