Page 23 of Ashes of Us
I followed him into his office and he closed the door behind us.
Brennan was in his late fifties, balding, with reading glasses perpetually perched on top of his head. He'd been principal at Riverside for fifteen years and ran the school like a well-oiled machine. He was efficient, no-nonsense, but genuinely cared about his staff.
"Welcome back," he said, settling into his chair. "How was your summer?"
It was such a normal question. Such a principal question. Like he didn't know exactly how my summer had been.
"It was... eventful," I said.
He had the decency to look uncomfortable. "I heard about—well. I'm sorry. That must have been difficult."
"Thanks."
"If you need anything—time off, a lighter workload, someone to cover your duties—just let me know. We're here to support you."
Everyone kept saying that.We're here to support you.Like I was fragile, or like I needed handling.
"I appreciate it," I said. "But I'm good. Really."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. Well, the offer stands. Janitorial has already opened your classroom up this morning, so everything’s set for you. Faculty meeting's at ten."
I thanked him and escaped to the hallway.
My classroom was at the end of the second-grade wing, Room 2B. I'd been in this room for three years, just a couple years after I’d arrived at Riverside Elementary, and had made it mine with hand-painted bulletin boards and a reading corner full of pillows and a poster that saidIn This Classroom, We Are Kind.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The room smelled like industrial cleaner and floor wax. Janitorial had done their job—desks wiped down and arranged in their usual clusters of four, floors mopped, windows cleaned. The alphabet banner still hung above the whiteboard. The reading corner pillows were stacked neatly. The poster that saidIn This Classroom, We Are Kindwas slightly crooked on the back wall.
Boxes of supplies sat on my desk, waiting to be unpacked. New markers. Construction paper. The laminated name tags I'd made in June before everything fell apart.
I set down my bag and looked around.
This used to feel like home. Somewhere I belonged.
Now it just felt like a room.
I pulled out a box of supplies and started unpacking scissors and glue sticks. Then pencils that would be lost or chewed to nubs by October. I organized them into the labeled bins I'd set up years ago, following the same system I always followed.
I was on autopilot. That's what this was. Going through the motions.
I moved to the bulletin board and started pinning up the welcome display I'd made in June. Bright construction paper letters that said WELCOME TO 2ND GRADE! surrounded by hand-drawn stars. I'd been so excited making this. Had spent an entire afternoon cutting out letters and arranging them just right.
That felt like a lifetime ago.
My phone buzzed, and I fished it out from my pocket. On the screen, a text from my mom.
First day back! How's it going? Call me later. Love you.
I pocketed the phone without responding.
By noon, I'd unpacked three boxes, hung two bulletin boards, and arranged the reading corner twice. The room looked exactly like it always did. Cheerful, organized, and ready for twenty-five seven-year-olds to come in and make it theirs.
I sat at my desk and stared at the lesson plan template I was supposed to fill out for next week.
Week 1: Getting to Know You activities. Classroom rules. Building community.
I'd taught this week a hundred times. Could do it in my sleep.
