Page 80 of Welded Defender
Hazel nods solemnly. “I’ll tell them you fix big things,” she counters. “And you’re the best at pancakes.”
“Facts,” he grins.
The bell rings—a single cheerful clang that ricochets off the pines. A current moves through the crowd. Backpacks shift.Doors open. Two teachers in rain jackets and sensible shoes beckon a river of small people toward them.
Hazel’s hand tightens in mine for a heartbeat. I feel the tremor of it right down to my knees. Fear is contagious. So is courage.
I squeeze back. “You ready, Bug?”
She nods. Then shakes her head. Then nods again. “Are you coming?”
“To the door,” I say. “We’ll watch you the whole way.”
“Pinky promise?” She holds out her pinky—the heaviest oath we know.
“Pinky promise.” I hook my finger with hers. Landon adds his finger, making a chain, because he’s learned our rituals like he built them himself.
We walk, our feet careful on the slick steps. The entryway smells like floor wax and pencil shavings. There’s a bulletin board with paper apples and a sign that says WELCOME, RIDGE RUNNERS! in crooked bubble letters. A boy in a dinosaur hoodie is crying. A girl with sparkly barrettes is whispering to her mom about wanting to go home. I clock exits without thinking—an old habit I haven’t bothered unlearning—and then let my eyes come back to our child.
Hazel stops at the threshold of the classroom and looks back at us.
I put my hand over my heart. Three pats. I. Love. You.
She mirrors the motion, serious for a second, and then she’s off. Backpack hook. Lunch bin. She says “Hi” to her teacher in a voice so small my throat tightens all over again, and the teacher—Ms. Pratt—drops to her knees to meet Hazel’s eyes, like kneeling is the only sensible posture in the presence of five-year-old courage. Ms. Pratt points to the circle rug. Hazel goes. Just like that. She doesn’t look back.
It should feel like a severing. It doesn’t. It feels like a knot easing.
Landon’s arm slides around my back and settles just below my shoulder blades, exactly where it always lands. We step out of the flow of parents and stand against the wall, out of the way, watching. Outside, the rainclouds finally give up the fight and the sun takes the edge off the air.
“She’s okay,” he says.
“She is,” I repeat. I let myself say it again, like a prayer and a proof. “She’s okay.”
There are moments I didn’t think we’d get here. Healing isn’t a single sunrise. It’s a thousand small dawns, some bright, some gray, all stubborn.
Landon presses a kiss into my hair as we watch Hazel wave across the room at another girl with matching leggings. “See?” Landon says into my hair. “Unicorn Union rep in the making.”
“Dangerous combo,” I manage, and he squeezes my side.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from Nova:Send me a picture of Hazelnut in front of the Ridge Runners sign or I’m driving down there to embarrass her with aunt-kisses.
I quickly find the one I took earlier and send it. A second later she replies with a string of heart-eyes and a GIF of a marching band. I can hear her cackling laugh from here.
Landon takes my hand and pulls me towards the exit. “She’ll be fine, sweetheart. We can’t stand out here all day.”
“I know.”
When we step back into the sunlight, the air is warmer. The clouds are shredding. The steps are damp but not slick anymore. Landon threads his fingers through mine and leads me to the top stair, where we lean against the rail and look out over the playground where our daughter will scrape her knees and learn to pump her legs on the swings. Landon shifts behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, hands meeting under my ribs.He rests his chin on my shoulder, and we fit like two puzzle pieces.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“Hey,” I echo, leaning back into him.
“Remember the first time you asked me to pretend to be your boyfriend?” he asks, mouth curving against my cheek.
I huff a laugh. “I remember thinking it was the dumbest, bravest thing I’d ever done.”
“You saved yourself,” he says. “And I got the honor of standing where you pointed.”
