Page 38 of Single Dad's Fake Bride
I knew I should be with Mom still, but making a new lesson plan and helping find a different sub for the day were harder than just pushing through the stress of it.
So here I was, walking into work with the weight of the world on my shoulders.
Usually, the kids' energy fed mine, but that morning, every sound grated against my nerves.
"Good morning, class," I managed, forcing brightness into my voice as I joined the chaotic scramble of unpacking backpacks and squeaking of chairs' feet on the floor.
I felt like hiding, not teaching, and then Eloise tugged on my sleeve, her dark eyes bright with concern.
"Miss Quinn, are you sad?"
The question stopped me cold. "What?"
"You look sad. Teachers aren't supposed to be sad."
She studied my face with the brutal honesty only children possessed.
"Did someone hurt your feelings?"
Twenty-two other faces turned toward me, suddenly interested in their teacher's emotional state.
I forced a smile that felt brittle around the edges.
"I'm not sad, Eloise. Sometimes, grown-ups just feel tired, that's all."
"My dad gets tired too," she said solemnly. "He says that's why he needs coffee and quiet time."
Eloise patted my arm matter-of-factly, and I forced another smile at the mention of her father.
Coffee and quiet time.
If only my problems could be solved so simply. But a very sick parent and bills coming out my ears weren’t things coffee could fix.
An arranged marriage, however, could remove a mountain of stress.
I ushered them to their desks to get the day started and sat down while they did a worksheet, staring at my phone as it buzzed with incoming calls.
The number wasn't saved in my contacts, but I recognized it from the collection notices that had been flooding my mailbox.
I let it go to voicemail.
Then I let the second call go to voicemail too—that number was the hospital intake lady I didn't have privacy to talk to.
The third time it rang, one of the students looked up and said, "Miss Quinn, should you have your phone in school?"
"You're absolutely right," I told him, switching the phone to silent.
But the damage was done.
The calls were a reminder of everything waiting for me outside the building—past-due bills, a mother in detox who would need round-the-clock supervision when she was released.
How was I supposed to afford an outpatient program for her?
How much did that even cost?
More than I had, certainly.
I deleted both voicemails without listening to them.
