Page 116 of The Nanny and the Hothead
“Proud?” she repeated.
“We can’t be doing too badly at this parenting thing. At least our kid didn’t pound a ton of cookies and throw up at school,” Mitch said under his breath, eyes glinting with mischief.
She got the gist of what he was saying. But two words stood out to her.
Our kid.
“I better get started,” he said, gesturing toward the truck.
“And I’ll ask the teacher if it’s okay for me to take some pictures of the class,” she said over her shoulder as she headed for the tree.
“Boys and girls, make a straight line in front of the truck, then sit down, crisscross applesauce,” the woman instructed.
Charlotte held up her camera. “Is it okay if I take a few pictures of the class interacting with Mitch? I’ll try not to get their faces in the shots.”
“You can. Our families sign permission forms, allowing us to take photographs at school,” the teacher replied as her expression grew pensive. She glanced at the children, who had followed directions, and now sat watching as Mitch popped open the entire side panel of the truck. “Can I speak to you for a minute?” she continued.
Charlotte twisted her camera’s strap. “Sure, we can chat. Is everything all right?”
The dreadeddo-you-have-a-minuteteacher question! When she was a girl, she’d heard many a teacher say this to Harper’s grandmother.
Mrs. Bergen removed a folded piece of paper from her clipboard. “During our writing time, I asked the children to write a letter to anyone they wanted—real, fictional, dead or alive. Oscar wrote a letter to his mother.”
Charlotte nodded, worry flooding her system. They hadn’t talked that much about Holly. He had her picture near his bed, and she was ready to listen if he ever wanted to talk. But life had moved so quickly these past few days. There had hardly been a moment to reflect.
“It’s noted on his registration documents that she recently passed away,” the teacher continued.
“Yes, it happened suddenly. Did Oscar write something that worried you?”
“Quite the opposite, actually. I’d like to share it with you.” Mrs. Bergen handed over the sheet of paper. “He’s a bright boy. His handwriting and spelling skills are at least a grade above. But it was the content of his letter that made me want to share this with you and his father.”
Charlotte unfolded the piece of paper and pored over the boy’s words.
Dear Mom,
I miss you lots and lots, but I am okay. I like my school. I have a friend in my class. She barfed at recess.
I want you to know that you were right. Dad is nice. And I have a Charlotte now. We both like cameras.
Love,
Oscar
She touched the spot on the paper where the boy had signed his name as her vision grew glassy. Two competing emotions tore through her. She couldn’t help but feel relieved about Oscar’s transition to life in Denver. It was everything she’d wanted for the boy—and for Mitch. But tangled in with that relief was a thread of fear over the photography workshop. Would two weeks away hamper Oscar’s progress? There was no way to know how he or Mitch would react. It could be fine—no big deal—or it could throw everything off.
“He’s a real sweetheart. It looks as if you and his father are doing a great job supporting him through this big shift in his life,” Mrs. Bergen commented.
Charlotte looked away to compose herself. “That’s reassuring,” she answered, handing back the letter.
“Why don’t you keep it,” the teacher replied, then surveyed a spot on the grass where two wiggly boys sat poking at each other. “I’ll let you get back to your photography, so I can get back to making sure these children don’t make a ruckus,” she added with a wide grin before heading over to quiet the rowdy pair.
Charlotte nodded, then skimmed the letter again, zeroing in on five words.
I have a Charlotte now.
“Who’s ready for grilled cheese?” Mitch called. She looked up to find the man, smiling from ear to ear as he spoke to the excited brood of wiggly first graders.
“Me, me, me!” cried the boys and girls.
