Page 1 of Her Cruel Empire
Chapter 1
Robin
Ipeel the glitter off Emmie’s nose with a damp paper towel, trying not to laugh as she scrunches her face like a disgruntled kitten. “But Miss Robin, it tickles!” she giggles, bouncing on her tiny sneakers.
“Hold still, sparkle monster,” I tease, dabbing at the last stubborn piece of silver glitter. Around us, the kindergarten classroom buzzes with controlled chaos—five-year-olds wielding safety scissors and construction paper with the focused intensity of surgeons. The smell of Elmer’s glue and apple juice boxes fills the air, mingling with the sound of small voices chattering about their weekend adventures.
I try to memorize it all. Tuck it away in my heart. I’ll miss it so much, all of it.
“Miss Robin!” Tommy hollers, and waves his crooked paper crown in the air, the purple construction paper already wilting. “Look! I’m the king of dinosaurs!”
“That’s amazing, Tommy.” I crouch down to his eye level, adjusting the crown so it sits properly on his dark curls. “But remember, even dinosaur kings need to use their inside voices.”
He nods solemnly, then immediately roars at his best friend.
Mrs. Henderson, the lead kindergarten teacher, approaches with that tired smile I know so well. There’s a suspicious orange stain on her cardigan that might be paint or might be goldfish crackers. But I’m sure I’ve got glitter in places I’ll only find once I shower. “Robin, honey, could you see why Sophia’s put herself in the quiet corner? I think it might have something to do with—” She mouths the word,the separation. Sophia’s mother mentioned it this morning when she dropped Sophia off.
Sure enough, Sophia sits cross-legged in the quiet corner, clutching a crumpled piece of paper to her chest. Her dark eyes are glassy with unshed tears and my heart squeezes. I know that look.
I’ve worn it myself.
“Of course.” I make my way over, settling beside her on the colorful alphabet rug. “Hey, sweetheart. Want to tell me what’s making you sad?”
She sniffles, holding up her paper, where she’s drawn herself, her brother, and her mom. “I don’t know if I should put my daddy on here. He doesn’t live with us anymore.”
I smooth her dark hair back from her face. “Sometimes daddies live somewhere else, but that doesn’t make them any less part of the family tree. You can add him in here, just above you and your brother.” I point above the place where she’s already written her own name and her brother’s. “Then Mommy goes over here.”
Her face brightens. “Can I add my dog too? Bluebell sleeps in my bed every night.”
“Absolutely. Dogs are definitely family.”
As Sophia gets back to work, Mrs. Henderson pulls me aside. Her expression grows serious.
“Robin.” Her voice is soft, careful. “I hate that today is your last day. I hate it more than I can tell you.”
“I know.” The words come out thick. “I hate it too.”
The district has cut funding for teacher’s aides across all elementary schools. Budget constraints, they called it. Necessary adjustments. A dozen other phrases that meant the same thing: there was no money for people like me.
“These kids adore you,” she continues, glancing around the classroom where several children are vying for my attention even from across the room, holding up artwork or broken toys that need fixing. “You’re a natural, Robin. They light up when they see you.”
“I know what you’re going to say,” I start, but she holds up a hand.
“Then let me finish. You’ve been saying for two years now that you want to go to college, become a teacher. Well, now you don’t have an excuse not to, and I’ll support any application you make for financial aid or scholarships.”
Her voice is firm, the same tone she uses when Tommy tries to convince her that hedefinitelyput his worksheet in his backpack, and I find myself smiling.
“But Robin…there’s something else,” she goes on quietly, and my stomach drops. “About the insurance. The school has agreed to hold off submitting your final termination for thirty days. That’ll keep your benefits active through next month. But after that...”
“After that, we’re on our own.” I finish the sentence she can’t quite say. I already knew it, but I’ve been hoping I’d somehow get another job before my time here was up.
Now I have thirty days to figure out how to get health insurance for five people when our monthly income barely covers rent and groceries. Thirty days to find a way to pay for Maisie’s medications without the partial coverage we’ve been relying on.
Thirty days to perform a financial miracle.
“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Henderson says, and I can hear that she means it. “I wish there was more I could do.”
“You’re doing everything you can. More than enough.” I force a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “Thank you. For the insurance thing, I mean. That thirty days might make all the difference.”
