The next morning, the sunlight poured through the curtains, bright and warm, promising another hot day in Georgia. I could already hear Mama bustling around the kitchen, humming to herself as the sound of clinking jars and the shuffle of paper bags filled the house.

“We’re headin’ to town today, Emily!” she called. “So get yourself dressed and ready to go!”

“Okay, Mama!” I shouted back, leaping out of bed.

Going to town was always an adventure. Folkston might’ve been small, but there was something about its streets that made it feel bigger. The old brick buildings, the chatter of neighbors, and the faint smell of barbecue drifting from Jalen's Bar-B-Q & Grille always made the trip worth it.

By the time I was dressed and ready, Papa was already outside, loading up the truck with the empty feed sacks and crates we’d bring back full of groceries and supplies. He adjusted his hat and called out, “You comin’, kiddo, or are we leavin’ you behind?”

“I’m comin’!” I yelled, racing down the steps and hopping into the cab of the truck.

Mama climbed in beside me, smoothing her dress and tucking a shopping list into her purse. “Timothy, don’t you dare forget to get gas this time,” she said, giving Papa a pointed look.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied with a grin, tipping his hat to her as he started the engine.

The truck rumbled to life, and soon we were bouncing down the dirt road toward town, the morning sun glinting off the windshield. I rolled down my window, letting the warm breeze whip through my hair as the familiar sights of the countryside rolled by—fields of wildflowers, clusters of pine trees, and the occasional mailbox standing crooked by the side of the road.

When we reached Folkston, the streets were already busy with folks going about their day. Mr. Tate was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the hardware store, Mrs. Peterson was arranging peaches at her fruit stand, and kids my age were riding their bikes up and down the street.

The store parking lot at Harvey’s Supermarket was already filling up by the time we arrived, the big green sign gleaming in the morning sun. It was the only real supermarket in town, aside from the Dollar General and Dollar Tree.

Papa parked the truck in a shady spot on the side of the building and hopped out, grabbing one of the empty buggies from the back.

“All right, girls,” he said, tipping his hat back. “Let’s make this quick. I don’t wanna spend all day shoppin’.”

Mama rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, pulling her shopping list from her purse as we headed to the door. “Emily, you stick close to me,” she said, taking my hand.

The store was cool and smelled faintly of coffee and fresh bread. I loved walking through the aisles, looking at all the colorful cans and jars stacked neatly on the shelves. I walked beside Mama as she steered the buggy down the aisles, picking out bags of flour, sugar, and cornmeal. The shelves were lined with all kinds of goodies, and my eyes kept wandering to the brightly colored candy near the checkout counter.

“Emily, come back here,” Mama said, her voice firm but kind. “We’ve got plenty of sweets at home.”

“But Mama,” I started, pointing to a big jar of peppermint sticks.

“No ‘buts,’” she said with a smile. “Now go grab a sack of potatoes for me, will you?”

I ran off to the produce section, where the potatoes were piled high in wooden bins. As I grabbed a sack and struggled to hoist it into the buggy, I heard Papa talking to someone near the butcher counter.

“Timothy, I hear you bagged a big ol’ gator yesterday,” said Mr. Walker, the butcher, leaning on the counter with a grin.

“Sure did,” Papa replied, puffing out his chest a little. “Turned it into supper last night. Might be the best gator tail I’ve ever had.”

“Good eatin’,” Mr. Walker said with a chuckle. “Next time, bring me the hide. I’ll tan it up for ya.”

As the grown-ups talked, I couldn’t help but smile. Folkston might’ve been small, but it was full of big personalities, and a trip to town was never boring.

As we made our way through the aisles, Mama suddenly stopped, her face lighting up as she waved to someone near the baking section.

“Well, if it isn’t Clara Mae!” she said, steering the buggy toward a woman in a floral dress who was inspecting bags of sugar.

Clara turned with a smile. “Beverly! I thought that was you. How are you, honey?”

“Oh, you know, keeping busy,” Mama said, resting her hand on the buggy. “Timothy and Emily have been keepin’ me on my toes as usual.”

They both laughed, and I knew this was going to take a while. Whenever Mama and Clara got to talking, it was like time stood still.

While they chatted about everything from church socials to Clara’s new peach cobbler recipe, I wandered a little further down the aisle, my eyes landing on the endcap display. There, stacked in shiny cans, was a pyramid of peaches in syrup. It was taller than me, and the idea of seeing what would happen if I pulled one from the middle was suddenly irresistible.

I glanced back at Mama, who was still deep in conversation. She wasn’t paying attention. I reached out, gripping the can in the center of the stack. Slowly, I slid it out, holding my breath.

For a second, nothing happened. Then, with a soft clink, the pyramid wobbled.

I froze, my heart racing. Maybe it would stay up.

But the wobble turned into a full-on collapse, and before I could even think to stop it, cans were tumbling down, clattering onto the floor in every direction.

The noise echoed through the store, and I felt every set of eyes in Harvey’s turn in my direction.

“Emily!” Mama’s sharp voice cut through the commotion as she hurried toward me, leaving Clara behind. Her face was a mix of shock and anger.

I stood there, my cheeks burning, as she surveyed the mess of rolling cans and toppled peaches.

“What in the world were you thinkin’?” she demanded, her hands on her hips.

“I… I just wanted to see what would happen,” I mumbled, staring at my shoes.

“Well, now you know,” she said firmly, bending down to pick up one of the cans. “And you’re gonna help clean it up.”

Clara joined her, chuckling softly. “Oh, Beverly, she’s just curious. Reminds me of my boys at that age.”

Mama gave Clara a tight smile before turning back to me. “Curious or not, she knows better than to make a mess like this. Grab those cans, Emily.”

I nodded quickly and scrambled to pick up the scattered cans, stacking them back on the display with shaking hands. Clara helped a little, but I could tell Mama was still upset.

By the time the cans were back in place, I was sweaty and embarrassed, and Mama’s stern look hadn’t softened much.

“You stay right by my side for the rest of this trip,” she said as she pushed the buggy forward.

“Yes, Mama,” I muttered, trailing behind her with my head down.

Papa caught up to us near the checkout lane, holding a pack of bacon and a grin. “What’s got y’all lookin’ so serious?” he asked.

“Your daughter decided to test the laws of gravity on the canned goods aisle,” Mama said flatly.

Papa chuckled, ruffling my hair. “That’s my girl. Always experimentin’.”

Mama shot him a look that could’ve stopped a clock. “Timothy, this isn’t funny.”

“All right, all right,” he said, holding up his hands. “I’ll let y’all sort it out.”

As we loaded the groceries into the truck, I kept quiet, knowing I was on thin ice. Still, as we drove home, I couldn’t help but smile a little, thinking about how those cans had tumbled down like a waterfall.

Even if I’d gotten in trouble, it had been kind of fun.

The ride home was quiet, except for the hum of the truck engine and the occasional bump of the dirt road. I sat in the middle seat, staring out the window and letting the warm breeze brush past my face. Mama hadn’t said much after we left Harvey’s, and I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Papa glanced over at me with a small grin. “Don’t look so down, kiddo. You didn’t ruin the whole town, just a stack of peaches.”

Mama sighed, shaking her head. “Timothy, you’re not helping.”

“I’m just sayin’,” he said, nudging my shoulder playfully. “At least it wasn’t eggs. Now that would’ve been a mess.”

That made me smile, even though I tried to hide it.

When we pulled into the driveway, the truck rumbled to a stop, and Papa hopped out to grab the crates of groceries. “Emily, come give me a hand,” he said, waving me over.

I slid out of the truck, eager to make up for my mistake earlier. We carried the groceries into the kitchen, setting the bags on the counter while Mama started putting things away.

“Go on and wash up, Emily,” she said, her voice softer now. “Lunch’ll be ready soon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, heading to the bathroom to scrub the dirt and sweat from my hands.

By the time I came back, Mama had set out plates of ham sandwiches and a big bowl of potato chips on the table. Papa was already sitting down, his hat pushed back, waiting patiently as Mama brought over the pitcher of sweet tea.

“Come on, now,” Mama said, motioning for me to join them. “Let’s say grace before we dig in.”

We all bowed our heads, and Papa cleared his throat. His voice was low and steady as he prayed.

“Lord, we thank You for this food on our table, for the hands that prepared it, and for the blessings You give us each and every day. We’re grateful for the sunshine, the good folks in this town, and the love of family. Amen.”

“Amen,” Mama and I echoed, lifting our heads.

Papa grabbed his sandwich with a grin. “All right, let’s eat!” He took a swig of sweet tea.

“Now,” Mama said, “let’s talk about what happened at the store.”

I fidgeted with my sandwich, not meeting her eyes.

“I know you didn’t mean to cause trouble,” she continued, “but you’ve got to think before you act, Emily. What if someone had gotten hurt?”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” I said, my voice small. “I just wanted to see what would happen.”

She sighed, her stern expression softening. “I know you’re curious, and that’s a good thing. But there’s a time and a place for it. Next time, try asking first. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said, feeling a little better.

“Good,” she said with a small smile, handing me the pitcher of tea. “Now, pour your Papa some more sweet tea before he drinks the whole thing.”

I laughed, reaching for the pitcher.

As we ate lunch, Papa started telling stories about when he was a boy, getting into trouble of his own. “One time,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “I tried to climb the water tower to see if I could catch a bird. My mama about skinned me alive when she found out.”

I giggled, imagining Papa as a kid, hanging from a water tower with a mischievous grin.

After we finished lunch and cleared the table, Mama handed me a broom.

“Since you’re so full of energy today, you can sweep the porch,” she said with a wink.

“Yes, Mama,” I said, taking the broom and heading outside.

The porch was my favorite part of the house. It wrapped all the way around, with a few rocking chairs and a small table where Mama kept a pot of flowers. As I swept, I kept an eye on the yard, watching the bees buzz around the wildflowers and the squirrels dart up and down the big oak tree near the edge of the woods.

While I worked, Papa came around the side of the house, carrying a bucket and some tools.

“Whatcha doin’, Papa?” I asked, leaning on the broom.

“Gotta fix the fence over by the garden,” he said, setting the bucket down and inspecting one of the wooden posts. “It’s leanin’ somethin’ fierce. You wanna help?”

“Sure!” I said, setting the broom aside and hurrying over.

We spent the next hour hammering nails, tightening wires, and replacing a couple of broken slats. Papa showed me how to hold the nails steady without hitting my fingers, and I felt a little thrill every time I got one right.

“Not bad, kiddo,” he said, stepping back to admire our work. “I reckon this’ll hold up for a good while now.”

“Do you think we’ll keep the rabbits out?” I asked, brushing dirt off my hands.

“Probably not,” he said with a chuckle. “Those little critters always find a way in. But it’s worth a try.”

By the time we finished, the afternoon sun was beating down hard, and we both decided it was time for a break. Papa headed inside to grab a cold drink, and I wandered over to the edge of the woods, where the shade felt cool and inviting.

I didn’t go in—Mama always said I needed permission first—but I crouched near the tall grass, looking for interesting rocks or bugs.

“Emily!” Mama’s voice called from the house. “Come on in, sweetie. It’s too hot to be out there.”

I stood up, brushing off my knees, and headed back toward the porch.

The rest of the day passed with little Moments that made it feel special in its own quiet way. After we’d tidied up from lunch, Mama handed me a basket full of laundry.

“Come on, Emily,” she said, grabbing another basket. “Let’s get these folded before your Papa gets grease all over his good shirt again.”

We sat on the porch, the warm breeze rustling the clothes as we worked. I liked the way the sun made the sheets smell clean and fresh, like sunlight and soap. Mama hummed a tune as she folded a pillowcase, her fingers moving quick and neat.

“Mama?” I said, trying to match her speed as I folded one of Papa’s shirts.

“Hmm?” she replied, glancing at me.

“Do you think I’ll ever be as good at folding as you?”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “It’s not about bein’ perfect, sugar. It’s about takin’ care of what you’ve got.”

I thought about that for a Moment as I finished my shirt. “I guess I can try harder to keep my room clean, then.”

“That’d be a fine start,” she said with a smile, tucking a folded sheet into the basket.

When the laundry was done, I wandered over to the driveway, where Papa was leaning under the hood of the truck. He had a wrench in one hand and a greasy rag in the other, muttering something about the carburetor.

“Whatcha workin’ on, Papa?” I asked, leaning against the truck.

“Just tryin’ to keep this ol’ girl runnin’,” he said, wiping his hands. “She’s got a few more miles left in her, I reckon.”

“Can I help?”

“Sure thing,” he said, handing me the rag. “Start by cleanin’ off these tools.”

I sat on the porch steps, wiping grease off the wrenches and screwdrivers while Papa tinkered away. He’d occasionally holler for me to pass him something, and I’d hand it over like a professional mechanic.

By the time he was done, the sun was dipping low in the sky, and I had a smear of grease across my cheek.

“Good job, kiddo,” Papa said, patting me on the back. “I might just have to hire you full-time.”

“I’ll take payment in candy,” I joked, and he laughed.

Later, as the sky turned shades of pink and orange, I wandered over to the bushes near the garden. The blackberry brambles were thick and tangled, but the berries were plump and juicy, just begging to be picked.

I reached in carefully, avoiding the thorns as I plucked a handful of the darkest, ripest berries. The sweet juice stained my fingers as I popped one into my mouth.

“Emily!” Mama’s voice called from the porch. “Don’t eat too many of those. You’ll spoil your supper!”

“I’m just testing ‘em!” I called back, grinning.

When I finally headed inside, my hands were sticky, and my face was smudged with blackberry juice. Mama shook her head with a smile, handing me a damp cloth.

“Go wash up,” she said. “You look like you’ve been wrestlin’ with a berry bush.”

As I washed my hands, I thought about the day—the little Moments, the laughter, the time spent with Mama and Papa. The earlier mishap at the store already felt like a distant memory, just one more story to laugh about at the dinner table.

The morning sun hadn't even cleared the treetops when Mama came into my room, her voice soft but firm.

"Rise and shine, Emily," she said, pulling the curtains open. "It's Sunday, and you know what that means."

I groaned, burying my face in the pillow. I liked church, mostly, but waking up early wasn't my favorite part of it.

"Come on, now," she said, tugging at the covers. "We've got to get there on time, or your Papa'll be complainin' about sittin' in the back row again."

That got me moving. Papa always liked to sit up front, claiming Pastor Wilson's words hit better the closer you were.

By the time I was dressed in my Sunday best—a simple blue dress with a bow in the back—and had my hair brushed and tied into neat pigtails, the smell of biscuits and bacon was wafting through the house.

"Better eat quick," Papa said, sitting at the table in his crisp button-down shirt and polished boots. "Can't have the Lord waitin' on us."

Mama set a plate in front of me, then sat down with her own. "Before we dig in, let's say grace."

We bowed our heads, and Papa led the prayer. "Lord, we thank You for another beautiful day and the chance to come together as a family. Bless this food, bless this day, and guide us in Your light. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I echoed, and soon the sound of forks scraping plates filled the room.

The ride to church was peaceful, the truck rumbling softly as we drove along the dirt road. I watched the countryside roll by, the morning light glinting off the dew-covered grass.

When we pulled up to the small white church, its steeple reaching toward the sky, the gravel parking lot was already filling with cars and trucks. Folks in their Sunday best milled about, chatting and laughing as they greeted one another.

"Morning, Timothy!" called Mr. Daniels, tipping his hat to Papa as we climbed out of the truck.

"Morning, Daniels," Papa replied with a wave.

Mama smoothed the wrinkles from her dress and took my hand as we walked toward the church doors. The scent of fresh-cut grass and blooming flowers filled the air, and I could hear the faint sound of the piano playing inside.

Inside, the sanctuary was bright and welcoming, with rows of polished wooden pews and sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows. I loved the windows—they were colorful and told stories I didn't fully understand, but they felt important.

We found our seats near the front, just like Papa liked, and waited for the service to begin.

As the piano music grew louder, the congregation quieted. Pastor Wilson, a tall man with a kind face and a booming voice, stepped up to the pulpit.

"Good mornin', everyone," he said, his voice filling the room. "It's a blessing to see y'all here today. Let's start with a hymn—'Just a closer walk with Thee.'"

The congregation stood, and the sound of voices rising together filled the church. Mama's voice was soft but steady, and Papa's was low and deep. I sang along, even though I wasn't sure I hit all the right notes.

I am weak but Thou art strong;
Jesus, keep me from all wrong;
I'll be satisfied as long
As I walk, let me walk close to Thee.

Just a closer walk with Thee,
Grant it, Jesus, is my plea,
Daily walking close to Thee,
Let it be, dear Lord, let it be.

Thro' this world of toil and snares,
If I falter, Lord, who cares?
Who with me my burden shares?
None but Thee, dear Lord, none but Thee.

Just a closer walk with Thee,
Grant it, Jesus, is my plea,
Daily walking close to Thee,
Let it be, dear Lord, let it be.

When my feeble life is o'er,
Time for me will be no more;
Guide me gently, safely o'er
To Thy kingdom shore, to Thy shore.

Just a closer walk with Thee,
Grant it, Jesus, is my plea,
Daily walking close to Thee,
Let it be, dear Lord, let it be.

After the hymn, Pastor Wilson led a prayer, thanking God for the day, the congregation, and the blessings they'd received. Then came the sermon.

Pastor Wilson talked about kindness and forgiveness, about loving your neighbor and doing what's right even when it's hard. His words were simple but powerful, and even though I didn't understand everything, I could tell they meant something to everyone around me.

When the service ended, the congregation gathered outside, chatting and catching up.

"Emily!" called Mrs. Anderson, one of Mama's friends, as she came over with a plate of cookies. "I made these for the bake sale, but I thought you might like one."

"Thank you, ma'am," I said, taking a cookie and biting into the soft, sweet dough.

As Mama and Papa talked with neighbors, I wandered around the yard, playing tag with some of the other kids. The churchyard felt alive with laughter and chatter.

It always took forever to leave church, especially because Mama and Papa loved to talk with just about everyone they ran into.

Papa stood near the steps, leaning on the railing with his hat tipped back, chatting with a group of men about the weather and the best way to fix a sagging barn door.

"I tell ya, Timothy," Mr. Daniels was saying, "you're gonna need more than a couple of nails to keep that thing upright."

"Well, I reckon I'll find out soon enough," Papa replied with a chuckle.

Meanwhile, Mama was near the oak tree at the edge of the yard, laughing with Mrs. Anderson and another woman about some news in town.

"You mean to tell me she brought three pies to the bake sale and didn't even bake them herself?" Mama asked, raising an eyebrow.

"She sure did," Mrs. Anderson said, shaking her head. "Store-bought, every one of 'em. But bless her heart, she tried."

I sat on the church steps, watching the other kids play tag in the grass. A couple of them tried to wave me over, but I didn't feel like running around in my Sunday dress. Instead, I picked at the dandelions growing by the steps, blowing their fluffy seeds into the air and watching them drift away.

Every now and then, I'd glance over at Mama or Papa, hoping they'd finally say, "Time to go," but they never did.

"Emily, why don't you go play with the others?" Mama called over after a while.

"I'm fine," I said, trying not to sound too impatient.

She gave me a knowing smile but didn't push me. I knew she and Papa were enjoying themselves, catching up with their friends and neighbors.

Eventually, Papa clapped Mr. Daniels on the back and tipped his hat to the group. "All right, we'd best be headin' home before the whole day's gone."

Mama took a little longer, wrapping up her conversation with a warm smile and a promise to drop by for tea sometime soon.

By the time we climbed back into the truck, the sun was high, and the heat was starting to settle in. I let out a little sigh of relief as we rolled down the road, the wind from the open windows cooling my face.

As the truck rumbled down the driveway and came to a stop in front of the house, I noticed something strange. The yard seemed alive with movement—little flashes of green and brown hopping through the grass and onto the porch steps.

"Frogs!" I squealed, bouncing in my seat.

Sure enough, there were frogs everywhere—big ones, little ones, fat ones, and skinny ones. Some were perched on the porch railing, while others were hopping around the garden, blending in with the leaves.

"Well, would you look at that," Papa said, climbing out of the truck with a grin. "Emily, looks like your dinner just delivered itself."

I was out of the truck before he could say Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah, running toward the yard. "I can catch them for dinner?" I asked, excitement bubbling in my chest.

Papa nodded, his grin widening. "Sure can. Frog legs fry up nice and tender. Let's see how many you can catch."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Mama groaned, stepping out of the truck and putting her hands on her hips. "Timothy, do you have to encourage this nonsense?"

"Come on, Bev," Papa said, chuckling. "It's good eatin'. Don't knock it till you try it."

"I'll knock it all I want," she said, wrinkling her nose as a frog hopped onto the porch step near her shoe. "This is disgusting. I'll be inside making a proper meal. You two can do... whatever this is."

I laughed as Mama headed toward the house, muttering under her breath about "swamp critters" and "ridiculous ideas."

"Let's get to work," Papa said, grabbing an old bucket from the shed and handing it to me.

I spent the next hour running around the yard, chasing frogs and carefully scooping them into the bucket. They were slippery little things, hopping out of my hands a few times before I got the hang of it, but I managed to catch enough to make Papa proud.

"Well, I'll be," he said, inspecting the bucket full of frogs. "You've got a talent for this, kiddo. We're gonna have ourselves a fine supper tonight."

I grinned, wiping the sweat from my forehead. "Can we fry them like the gator tail?"

"You bet," he said, carrying the bucket toward the shed. "But first, we gotta clean 'em. Go wash up and tell your mama we'll be ready for supper soon."

I ran inside, where Mama was chopping vegetables at the counter. She raised an eyebrow when she saw me.

"Don't even think about putting those frogs in my kitchen," she warned.

"I won't," I said, washing my hands at the sink. "Papa's taking care of it. But he said they'll be real good."

Mama shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "You two are somethin' else, you know that?"

As I washed my hands at the sink, Mama glanced over and let out a dramatic sigh.

"Emily! Look at your dress!" she said, pointing to the smudges of dirt and a small green streak from where I'd wiped my hands earlier.

I looked down and winced. I'd been so excited about the frogs that I'd completely forgotten to change out of my Sunday dress after church.

"Oh no," I said, biting my lip. "I forgot!"

Mama put down the knife she was using to chop vegetables and crossed her arms. "That's why I tell you to change first thing when we get home. Now look at it—it's a mess!"

"I'm sorry, Mama," I said, twisting the fabric of my dress in my hands.

"Go change into your play clothes before you get into any more trouble."

"Yes, Mama," I said quickly, hurrying out of the kitchen and up to my room.

I swapped the dress for a pair of overalls and a T-shirt, then brought the dirty dress back downstairs. Mama was waiting, her arms still crossed but her expression softer.

I handed the dress to Mama, who clicked her tongue as she examined the stains.

"This is gonna take some elbow grease," she said, grabbing a basin from under the sink. She filled it with warm water, added a bit of lye soap, and set it on the counter.

"Go fetch the scrub board from the porch," she said, rolling up her sleeves.

"Yes, Mama," I replied, hurrying outside to grab the worn wooden board that leaned against the porch wall. It was smooth in some spots and rough in others from years of use. I brought it back to the kitchen and set it beside the basin.

Mama dipped the dress into the soapy water, then began scrubbing it against the board with quick, practiced strokes. The suds turned gray almost immediately as the dirt and grass stains started lifting from the fabric.

"This is why I tell you to change after church," she said, glancing at me with a raised eyebrow.

"I know," I said, watching the water swirl with tiny bubbles. "I just forgot."

She sighed but didn't say anything more, focusing on the dress. Once she was satisfied, she wrung it out and handed it to me.

"Go hang this on the line," she said.

I took the damp dress out to the backyard, where the clothesline stretched between two tall posts. The breeze was warm, and the sun was still bright in the sky, enough to dry things quickly. I used the clothespins to clip the dress securely to the line, watching it sway gently in the wind.

When I went back inside, Mama was wiping her hands on a towel. "That'll teach you to remember next time," she said with a small smile. "Now, go see what your Papa's up to. I'm sure he's gotten into some kind of mess with those frogs by now."

I skipped across the yard, the warm grass tickling my bare feet as I headed toward the shed. I could hear Papa whistling a tune, the sound mingling with the occasional croak of frogs from the bucket nearby.

When I peeked around the corner, there he was, sitting on an old stool with his sleeves rolled up, a knife in one hand and a frog in the other.

"Hey there, kiddo," he said without looking up, his voice easy and cheerful. "You come to help, or just to supervise?"

"Help," I said, stepping closer and wrinkling my nose at the smell.

"Well, you've got good timing," he said, setting the cleaned frog legs into a bowl. "Grab that other bucket and rinse these off for me."

I picked up the smaller bucket he pointed to and walked over to the spigot near the side of the shed. The cool water gushed out, splashing my hands as I rinsed the frog legs one by one.

"What's Mama gonna say when she sees this?" I asked, glancing over my shoulder at Papa.

He laughed, wiping his knife on a rag. "She's already said it. Plenty of times. But she'll eat 'em. She always does."

I wasn't so sure about that, but I didn't argue. Once the frog legs were cleaned and the pile in the bowl was growing, I couldn't help but feel a little proud.

"Do you think I'll get good at this one day?" I asked, bringing the rinsed bucket back to him.

"Darlin', you're already good at it," he said, giving me a wink.

I skipped back to the house, ready to tell Mama that lunch was long overdue. When I stepped into the kitchen, she was already slicing a loaf of bread and setting out jars of preserves.

"Lunch first, then we'll deal with your frogs," she said firmly, not even looking up.

"Yes, ma'am," I replied, setting the bucket down near the door and washing my hands at the sink.

"Grab some plates and set the table," she added. "Your Papa'll be in here any second, saying he's starving."

I laughed because she was right. As if on cue, Papa's voice called from outside, "Y'all better not have started without me!"

By the time he walked in, wiping his hands on a rag, the table was set with thick slices of bread, butter, and jars of strawberry and peach preserves. Mama had also sliced up some leftover ham, arranging it neatly on a plate.

"Let's say grace," she said, sitting down and folding her hands.

We all bowed our heads as Papa spoke. "Lord, we thank You for this food and for the hard work that went into it. Thank You for another beautiful day and for keeping us safe. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I echoed.

Lunch was simple but satisfying, and the kitchen was filled with the sound of clinking forks and cheerful conversation. Papa told us about the time he tried to fry frogs as a kid and ended up burning the skillet. Mama shook her head, muttering something about "boys and their wild ideas," but she was smiling the whole time.

After we cleaned up, the afternoon stretched out quiet and lazy. The sun was high, and the air felt heavy with warmth. Papa pulled his whittling knife from his pocket and settled into his rocking chair on the porch.

"What are you making, Papa?" I asked, sitting cross-legged on the porch floor.

He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. "Guess you'll just have to wait and see."

The soft scrape of the knife against the wood was steady and soothing. I watched as little curls of wood fell to the porch, and slowly, the shape of a small animal—maybe a dog, maybe a rabbit—began to emerge. As I sat there, I felt a strange thought bubble up, one I didn't often say out loud.

"You know, Papa," I began, watching his hands work carefully, "sometimes I feel like I'm not just me. Like, some days I feel like Emily—the way everyone sees me—but other days, I feel like maybe I'm more like you. Like I could be a boy if I wanted to."

Papa paused for a Moment, his knife still against the wood. He glanced at me, his eyes soft and curious. "That so?"

I nodded, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. "Yeah. I mean, I like climbin' trees and catchin' frogs, and all the boys do that. But then there are days I like wearin' dresses and sittin' quiet with Mama. It's like I'm both, but not always at the same time."

Papa smiled, his hands starting to carve again. "Well, kiddo, you just keep bein' you. Doesn't matter what anyone thinks, so long as you're happy."

I felt my chest loosen a little, like a weight I didn't know I was carrying had lifted. "Thanks, Papa." Mama came out with a glass of iced tea and sat on the swing, her book resting in her lap.

"This is the best part of the day," she said, letting the swing rock gently.

I nodded. Even though the frogs were still hopping around the yard, I decided they could wait. There'd be plenty of time for adventure later, but for now, the soft rhythm of the porch and the warmth of the sun felt just right.

As Papa continued whittling and Mama sipped her iced tea, an idea popped into my head. I stood up and grabbed the jar of pennies from the side table by the rocking chair.

"Let's play the penny game!" I said, holding up the jar with a grin.

"The penny game?" Papa asked, looking up from his carving.

"Yeah! We see who can toss their pennies closest to the edge of the porch without them falling off!"

Mama shook her head but smiled. "And what's the prize for winning this high-stakes game?"

"The winner gets to pick dessert tonight!" I declared, spilling a few pennies into my hand.

Papa chuckled, setting his knife and carving aside. "All right, I'm in. But you better watch out, kiddo. I've got a steady hand."

We each grabbed a handful of pennies, taking turns tossing them toward the edge of the porch. Some stopped just shy of the edge, while others tumbled into the dirt below. Mama's tosses were careful and precise, Papa's were strong but wild, and mine were somewhere in between, sometimes landing too far, sometimes not far enough.

"Looks like I win!" Mama announced after her penny stopped just a hair from the edge.

"No fair!" Papa said, pretending to pout. "She's got a sharpshooter's eye."

"It's called precision, Timothy," she said with a laugh, brushing her hands. "Now, I'm thinkin' peach cobbler for dessert."

"Peach cobbler? Fine choice," Papa said, leaning back in his chair. "But next time, I'm takin' the win."

I laughed, scooping up the pennies that had fallen and putting them back in the jar. It wasn't a big game, but it felt like one of those Moments that mattered, one I'd carry with me for a long time.

By the time dinner rolled around, the air outside had cooled, and the frogs—many of which I'd caught earlier—were ready to be fried. Mama sighed as she set the table, muttering about swamp creatures and her kitchen being taken over by "wild ideas." Papa, on the other hand, was in his element, standing over the cast iron skillet with his sleeves rolled up, a grin on his face.

"Frog legs fry up quick," he said, flipping a batch with practiced ease. The smell of crispy batter filled the house, mingling with the scent of cornbread Mama had made to go along with it.

We gathered around the table, the plates piled high with golden-brown frog legs, cornbread, and a fresh garden salad Mama had insisted on adding. As usual, we bowed our heads before digging in.

Papa led the prayer. "Lord, thank You for this meal, for the hands that prepared it, and for the blessings of this day. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I echoed.

I picked up a piece of frog leg, the crispy batter warm against my fingers. I took a bite, and the flavor surprised me. It was light and tender, with a hint of the seasoning Papa had added—a mix of salt, pepper, and a little cayenne for heat.

"Tastes like chicken," I said, grinning.

Papa laughed, reaching for another piece. "That's what they all say. But it's better than chicken, isn't it?"

I nodded, chewing happily. "It's really good."

Mama took a small bite, her expression skeptical at first, but then she nodded. "Not bad. Still not my favorite, but not bad."

Papa smirked. "Told ya."

We ate until we were full, the conversation bouncing between frogs, funny stories from the day, and plans for tomorrow. By the time we were done, the plates were nearly empty, and the only sounds were the crickets starting their nightly song outside.

It was Monday morning and I was sitting on the porch, playing with a small stick I'd carved into a pretend sword.

"Emily," Mama called from the kitchen, her voice carrying through the house. "Come eat your breakfast before it gets cold!"

"Coming!" I yelled back, hopping out of bed and quickly pulling on my overalls. The smell of bacon and biscuits tugged me faster than my feet could carry me.

At the table, Papa was already halfway through his plate, reading the paper with one hand and holding a fork in the other. Mama stood by the stove, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

"Mornin', kiddo," Papa said, glancing up as I plopped into my chair.

"Morning," I replied, grabbing a biscuit and slathering it with butter. "What's we doing today today?"

"It's Monday, so we'll keep it easy," Mama said, setting her coffee down and joining us at the table. "But I want you to help me with the garden later. We've got weeds growing faster than I can pull 'em."

I nodded, my mouth too full of biscuit to answer properly. Working in the garden wasn't my favorite thing, but I didn't mind as much when it meant spending time with Mama.

Papa folded his paper and set it aside. "Before you get to that, I need to check the fence line. Emily, you wanna come with me? It's been a while since we've walked it."

I perked up immediately. Walking the fence line with Papa meant more than just checking for loose posts and gaps; it meant exploring the edges of our land, seeing what critters had come through overnight, and hearing Papa's stories about when he was a boy.

"Can I, Mama?" I asked, looking at her with wide eyes.

She smiled and waved me off. "Go on, then. But don't dawdle too long. The weeds will still be waitin' for you."

I grinned, stuffing the last bite of biscuit into my mouth before hopping up to grab my boots. Papa was already by the door, his hat in hand, waiting for me.

"Let's get to it," he said, opening the door and stepping out into the warm morning air.

We walked along the fence line, the grass soft underfoot and the sun climbing higher in the sky. Papa pointed out a few spots where the fence needed patching, marking them with a piece of string he carried in his pocket. Along the way, we found signs of deer, raccoons, and even a fox that had passed through during the night.

"You see this here?" Papa said, crouching down to point at a cluster of paw prints near the fence. "That's a fox, I'd bet. Sneaky little things, they are. Probably sniffin' around for chickens."

I crouched beside him, tracing the paw prints with my finger. "Think we'll see one?"

"Maybe," he said, standing back up. "But they're quick. You gotta be lucky to catch a glimpse of 'em."

We kept walking, and Papa told me stories about how he used to trap foxes when he was a boy. I loved hearing about the tricks he used and the adventures he had growing up. It made me feel like I was part of something bigger, like our land and our family were connected in ways I couldn't always see.

As we walked further, I glanced at Papa, watching the way he moved so sure and steady. I kicked at the dirt a little, a thought stirring in the back of my mind.

"Papa," I said, breaking the quiet. "Remember what I told you before? About feelin' like I'm a little of both?"

He slowed his steps and looked over at me, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "Course I do. Why? You thinkin' about it again?"

"Yeah," I admitted, tracing a pattern in the dust with my boot. "It just... makes me wonder sometimes if I'm supposed to pick one or the other."

Papa stopped walking and rested his hand on my shoulder. "Emily, you don't have to pick nothin'. Like I told you before, this world's big enough for you to climb trees and bake pies. To be you, however that looks. Don't let anyone tell you different."

I smiled, feeling the weight lift just a little. "Thanks, Papa."

He squeezed my shoulder gently. "Anytime, kiddo. Now, let's see if we can't find more of those fox prints before the sun gets too high."

We kept walking along the fence line, the soft rustle of the breeze in the grass and the occasional chirp of birds filling the quiet. I noticed how Papa scanned the land as we walked, his eyes always looking for the smallest details, like a fence post leaning just a little too far or a patch of ground where animals had dug under the wire.

"Do you think a fox could really get into the chicken coop?" I asked.

"If it's hungry enough, it'll try," Papa said, pausing to check a loose post. "That's why we keep the coop locked up tight at night. But you'd be surprised what animals can do when they're determined."

"Have you ever seen one try?" I crouched down to look at a patch of dirt near the fence, wondering if I could spot another paw print.

"Oh, sure," Papa said, straightening up. "One time, back when I was about your age, we had a fox that was so bold it'd come up to the coop even during the day. Smart little thing—it figured out how to nudge the latch loose with its nose."

"What happened?" I asked, wide-eyed.

Papa grinned. "Well, I reckon it got away with a hen or two before my Papa caught it. He set a trap near the coop, and we stayed up late one night just to see if it'd come back. Sure enough, there it was, sneakin' around like it owned the place."

"Did you catch it?" I stood up, brushing the dirt off my hands.

"Sure did," Papa said with a chuckle. "But it put up a fight. Took us all night to calm the chickens down afterward."

I laughed, imagining the scene. "I wish I could've seen that."

Papa shook his head, still smiling. "You've got plenty of your own adventures ahead, kiddo. Don't you worry."

By the time we looped back toward the house, the sun was high, and the morning had turned hot and sticky. I could see Mama in the garden, her sun hat tilted low as she pulled at a stubborn weed.

"Go on and grab some water," Papa said, patting my shoulder. "Then you can help your mama."

I nodded and headed straight for the garden hose instead of going inside. The hose was coiled up near the side of the house, and I gave it a good tug to unwind it. The water shot out cold and fast when I turned the spigot, splashing onto the dirt and my bare feet. I leaned down and cupped my hands, letting the icy water pool before slurping it up like I always did.

The coolness was just what I needed after walking in the heat, and for a Moment, I sprayed the hose into the air, letting the mist catch the sunlight and fall over me in tiny, glittering drops. I laughed, feeling refreshed and just a little mischievous.

"Emily!" Mama called from the garden, her hands on her hips. "Don't soak yourself before you come help me!"

"Just coolin' off, Mama!" I yelled back, grinning as I splashed some water on my arms before shutting the hose off.

With my thirst quenched and the heat chased away, I coiled the hose back neatly and headed toward the garden, ready for whatever chores Mama had planned.

Just then a familiar voice called out.

"Help! Anybody home?"

Papa walked over to see what was going on.

"Timothy, I've got myself in a mess," he said, wiping his brow. "The front wheel gave out, and to make matters worse, my mule spooked and ran off. Don't know where she's gone."

Papa frowned, crouching down to inspect the broken wagon. "Well, the wheel's an easy enough fix, but that mule of yours might take some tracking. Where'd you last see her?"

"She bolted near the creek," Mr. Harlan said, pointing toward the woods. "I tied her up while I loaded the wagon, but she must've gotten loose."

Papa straightened up, brushing his hands on his pants. "All right, here's what we'll do. Emily and I will help you track down your mule. Once we've got her, we'll come back and fix the wagon."

Mr. Harlan let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Timothy. I don't know what I'd do without y'all."

Papa tipped his hat. "That's what neighbors are for. Let's grab some rope and head out."

I ran to grab the rope from the shed while Papa and Mr. Harlan talked about where the mule might have gone. Part of me was excited to go tracking; it felt like an adventure straight out of a storybook.

As we headed into the woods, I stayed close to Papa, keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of the mule. The trees cast long shadows on the ground, and the air was cooler here, filled with the earthy smell of leaves and moss.

"See anything?" Papa asked, glancing at me.

I shook my head. "Not yet, but I'm looking."

After a while, we found fresh hoofprints near the creek. Papa crouched down to inspect them, a small smile on his face. "She's close. These prints are fresh. Keep your ears open."

Sure enough, after a few more minutes of walking, we heard a faint rustling and the soft snort of a mule. There she was, standing by the water and munching on some grass, her reins tangled in a low-hanging branch.

"There she is!" I whispered, pointing.

Mr. Harlan let out a relieved laugh. "That's my girl. Knew she wouldn't go far."

Carefully, Papa approached the mule, talking to her in a low, calm voice. "Easy now, girl. Let's get you back where you belong."

Once he untangled the reins, Mr. Harlan grabbed hold and gave her a gentle pat. "Thank you, Timothy. Emily, you've got sharp eyes. Couldn't have done it without you."

I beamed, feeling proud as we led the mule back to the wagon. Fixing the wheel took a little longer, with Papa showing me how to brace the axle and hammer the pieces back into place, but by the time we were done, the wagon looked as good as new.

"All right, Harlan," Papa said, dusting off his hands. "You're good to go. Just keep a closer eye on that mule next time."

"You have my word," Mr. Harlan said, tipping his hat. "I owe y'all big time. Come by the house soon, and I'll make it up to you with some fresh biscuits and honey."

Papa laughed. "We'll hold you to that. Safe travels."

As Mr. Harlan drove off, I looked up at Papa. "That was fun. Can we do it again?"

He chuckled, ruffling my hair. "Let's hope we don't have to. But you did good today, Emily. Real good."

I smiled, feeling like I'd been part of something important. It wasn't every day you got to help a neighbor and have an adventure all in one.

As Mr. Harlan's wagon disappeared down the road, I stretched my arms up high and let out a big sigh. The afternoon sun was starting to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the yard.

"Well, that was somethin'," I said, dusting my hands off on my overalls.

Papa leaned back against the fence, wiping his brow with a bandana. "You're tellin' me. That mule was more stubborn than a pig in a potato patch."

I giggled at the thought, but then an idea struck me. I crouched down, scooped up a handful of dirt, and packed it tight into a clump. With a grin, I threw it toward Papa, the soft dirt breaking apart as it landed harmlessly on his boot.

He looked at me, pretending to be shocked. "Oh, you've done it now, kiddo."

Before I could run, he reached down and grabbed a small clump of dirt himself, flinging it toward me. It landed just beside me, and I burst out laughing.

"You missed!" I teased, grabbing another handful and tossing it toward him.

Papa narrowed his eyes playfully. "Don't get too cocky, Emily."

We went back and forth for a few minutes, laughing so hard I nearly fell over. It wasn't long before Mama came out onto the porch, her hands on her hips and an exasperated look on her face.

"What in the world are you two doin'?" she asked, but her tone couldn't quite hide her amusement.

"Just blowin' off some steam," Papa said with a grin, brushing dirt off his shirt.

"Well, don't blow so much steam that I have to clean it up," she said, shaking her head. "Emily, go wash up. Dinner's not far off."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, still laughing as I headed toward the garden hose. My face was flushed, my hands were dirty, but my heart felt full.

By the time dinner rolled around, the sky was painted in hues of orange and pink, the kind of evening that made everything feel a little more peaceful. Mama had outdone herself, as usual, with a spread that smelled like home—fried chicken, cornbread, green beans, and a peach cobbler cooling on the windowsill.

When we sat down, the smell of the food made my stomach rumble so loud that Papa chuckled. "Sounds like someone's been workin' hard today."

Mama raised an eyebrow. "Workin' hard or playin' hard? Judging by the dirt clods I saw earlier, I'd say the latter."

"A little of both," I admitted with a grin.

"All right, let's say grace," Papa said, bowing his head. "Lord, we thank You for this food, for the hands that prepared it, and for the good work You've given us to do. Bless this family and this evening. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I echoed.

The first bite of fried chicken was heaven. The crispy skin crackled as I bit into it, the juicy meat practically melting in my mouth. I loaded my plate with cornbread and green beans, savoring each bite like it was the best thing I'd ever eaten.

"This is so good, Mama," I said between bites.

She smiled, her cheeks a little pink. "Well, thank you, Emily. But don't forget to leave room for cobbler."

Papa nodded, his plate already looking empty. "Best meal I've had all week. Though that might be because I earned it today," he said, giving me a wink.

"You mean we earned it," I corrected, grinning.

"Fair enough," Papa said, raising his glass of sweet tea. "To teamwork."

"To teamwork," I echoed, clinking my glass against his.

Dinner passed with easy conversation and laughter, the kind that made me feel warm all over. By the time the peach cobbler made its way to the table, the sun had dipped below the horizon, and the first crickets of the evening were starting their song.

"Save me a piece for tomorrow," Papa said, leaning back in his chair with a contented sigh.

"If there's any left," Mama said with a laugh, handing me another slice.

I took my plate out to the porch after dinner, sitting on the steps as the night settled in around me. The lightning bugs blinked in the yard, and the stars were just beginning to peek out in the darkening sky. I couldn't help but smile. Days like this felt like they were made to last forever.

The morning sun streamed through the window, turning the worn wooden floorboards into streaks of gold. I sat at the kitchen table, doodling on a scrap of paper with a stubby pencil, my feet swinging back and forth above the ground. The smell of yeast and flour filled the room as Mama kneaded dough for bread, her strong hands working with practiced rhythm. Her apron, speckled with flour, swayed as she leaned into the motion. Outside, the cicadas were already singing, their buzzing mixing with the faint sound of hammering coming from the direction of town.

Papa had left before dawn, his boots crunching over the gravel driveway as he loaded up his truck. I'd heard the familiar clink of his tools and the soft rumble of the engine as he pulled away. He worked as a carpenter, building and fixing things all over Folkston. Folks said he had a knack for turning wood into something beautiful, and I believed it. Every piece he made felt like it had a story. My favorite was the little carved bird he brought me last year, its tiny wings stretched like it was ready to take flight. It sat on my windowsill, catching the light just right every morning.

"What're you drawing, Emily?" Mama asked, glancing over her shoulder with a quick smile, her braid slipping over her shoulder.

"Just stuff," I said, holding up the paper. It was a rough sketch of a treehouse, complete with a ladder, a rope swing, and even a little flag at the top. "Do you think Papa could make me one of these?"

Mama's laugh was soft, like the rustle of wind through the trees. "I think if you ask him real nice, he just might. But don't go expectin' it tomorrow. He's got plenty of work on his plate already."

I sighed, setting the drawing down with a dramatic huff. "I know. He's always busy."

"Well, that's why you and I need to keep this house runnin'," Mama said, her voice gentle but firm. She dusted her hands off on her apron and gave me a knowing look. "Speaking of which, there's laundry to hang and the chickens need feedin'. Think you can handle that while I finish up here?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, hopping down from the chair. My bare feet hit the cool floor with a soft thud, and I grabbed the basket of wet clothes Mama had already scrubbed in the basin.

The sun was already warming the yard as I stepped outside, the grass cool and damp under my feet. Mama didn't like me running around barefoot, always warning about snakes or splinters, but I couldn't help myself. Feeling the earth beneath me made me feel alive, like I was connected to something bigger.

I pulled a damp shirt from the basket and pinned it to the line, the wooden clothespins clicking into place. The breeze tugged at the fabric, making it ripple like waves on the creek. Our chickens clucked and flapped around the yard, scratching at the dirt for any hidden treats. Ruby, the feisty red hen with a sharp beak and sharper attitude, strutted over, her head cocked like she was inspecting my work.

"You wait your turn," I said, wagging a finger at her. "The feed's comin' after this."

Ruby tilted her head, her beady eyes glinting, before clucking in what sounded like protest. I ignored her sass, finishing up the clothes before grabbing the feed bucket. The grain rattled inside as I walked toward the coop, and the chickens swarmed me like I was the queen of the yard. Ruby, as usual, was first in line, snatching a piece of grain midair with a triumphant hop.

"Show-off," I muttered, grinning as I scattered the rest of the feed across the ground.

With my chores done, the whole day stretched ahead of me like an empty canvas. I grabbed my trusty stick-sword from the porch and a small jar I'd washed out the day before. My sights were set on the creek, a cool sanctuary where dragonflies danced, and frogs played hide-and-seek.

The path to the creek was shaded by tall pines, their needles carpeting the ground in a soft, fragrant layer. I swung my stick-sword at imaginary foes, clearing the way for my pirate crew. The creek itself was clear and cool, its surface sparkling in the dappled sunlight.

I crouched down by the water, the mud squishing between my toes as I waited, still as a stone. A little green frog hopped onto a nearby rock, its round eyes glinting like marbles. Slowly, I reached out with my jar, but the frog had other plans. It leapt into the water with a splash, leaving me laughing at my empty hands.

"I'll get you next time," I said, tipping my imaginary hat to the little critter.

I spent the next hour splashing through the water, my overalls soaked to the knees. I climbed a low tree near the bank, pretending it was the crow's nest of my pirate ship.

"Ahoy!" I shouted, waving my stick-sword. "Surrender or face the plank!"

A squirrel chattered from a branch above, and I saluted it. "Welcome aboard, First Mate Nutters. We've got treasure to find."

By the time I made it back home, the sun was dipping low, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Mama was on the porch, snapping beans into a big metal bowl. She looked up as I approached, her eyes twinkling with amusement at the sight of my muddy clothes.

"Had yourself an adventure, did you?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, plopping down on the steps beside her. "I didn't find any treasure, but I'll try again tomorrow."

Mama chuckled, shaking her head. "Well, get yourself cleaned up before Papa gets home. Supper'll be ready soon."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, grinning as I headed to the garden hose. The cool water washed away the mud, and as I stood there, watching the last rays of sunlight filter through the trees, I felt that familiar pull of adventure. Tomorrow was another day, and who knew what it might bring?

When Papa's truck rolled into the yard, I was already perched on the porch, my bare feet tapping excitedly against the wooden boards like a song only I could hear. The evening sun dipped low, painting the sky a fiery orange and casting long shadows over the yard. As soon as I spotted him climbing down, his toolbox in hand, I bolted down the steps and across the dirt yard, my arms flailing with excitement. Dust puffed up behind me, sticking to my legs, but I didn't care.

"Papa! Papa! You're home!" I shouted, skidding to a stop just shy of crashing into him.

He chuckled, a deep, familiar sound that made my heart feel all warm and snug. Setting his toolbox down with a clink, he reached out to ruffle my hair, his calloused fingers catching a few tangles. "Well, look at you, tearin' across the yard like a wild thing. Did you miss me that much, Emily?"

"I did!" I said, bouncing on my toes like I was fixing to burst. "How was work? Did you make somethin' neat?"

Papa smiled, wiping his hands on his dusty trousers. His shirt sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, showing the faint smudges of sawdust still clinging to his arms. "I might've made somethin' special. But you'll have to wait till after supper to see it."

I groaned, dragging the sound out as long as I could. "Aww, Papa, that's too long!" I protested, crossing my arms. But he just laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners the way they always did when he was amused.

"Go help your mama set the table," he said, bending to pick up his toolbox. "I'll be in soon."

I dashed back to the house, my bare feet kicking up more dust as I went. "Don't forget to bring it in!" I called over my shoulder.

Mama was already in the kitchen, flipping the switch to light the room. The bulbs cast a warm yellow glow over the worn wooden table and the checkered curtains that fluttered slightly in the breeze from the open window. She was peeling potatoes, her hands working quick and steady.

"Slow down, Emily, before you knock somethin' over," she warned, though there was a smile tugging at her lips.

"Papa's home!" I said, grabbing plates from the cupboard and nearly dropping one in my excitement. "And he said he made somethin' special!"

"Did he now?" Mama said, pausing to wipe her hands on her apron. Her smile grew, soft and knowing. "Well, let's get supper ready so we can all hear about it."

We set the table in record time, the sound of plates and cutlery clinking filling the small kitchen. Outside, the cicadas started their evening song, blending with the faint creak of the rocking chair on the porch where Papa always liked to sit. The smells of fried chicken and roasted vegetables soon filled the air, and my stomach rumbled loud enough that Mama shot me a teasing look.

"Guess somebody's ready to eat," she said with a wink.

When we finally sat down, the meal felt like a feast. Papa shared stories about his day in town, talking about the new lumber yard and the old man who ran it, who apparently had a knack for telling jokes that'd make your sides split. I hung onto every word, laughing along, but my curiosity about the surprise was nearly bubbling over.

After the plates were cleared and Mama brought out a slice of pie for each of us, Papa leaned back in his chair, reaching for something wrapped in cloth that he'd set on the counter earlier. "Alright now, Emily," he said, his voice taking on a playful lilt, "this here's for you."

My eyes went wide as saucers as he handed me the bundle. I held it carefully, unwrapping the cloth as if it held the world's most delicate treasure. When the tiny wooden fox was revealed, my breath caught. Its tail curled just so, and its little face looked so lifelike I half-expected it to blink at me. The wood gleamed under the kitchen light, smooth and polished to perfection.

"It's beautiful," I whispered, cradling it in my hands like it was a baby bird. "Thank you, Papa!"

He smiled, the pride plain on his face. "I figured you'd like it, after all those tracks we saw the other day by the creek. Thought it might make a fine little treasure for my adventurer."

I beamed, holding the fox up so the light caught every curve and detail. It felt warm in my hands, like it was already mine in every way that mattered. "It's perfect," I said, my voice a mix of awe and joy.

Papa leaned back with a satisfied look, sipping his sweet tea. "Well, don't lose it now. Every adventurer needs somethin' to remind 'em where they've been."

That little fox sat on my bedside table that night, and I stared at it until my eyes grew heavy, imagining all the adventures we'd have together. It felt like the perfect end to a perfect day.

After dinner, I grabbed my little wooden fox, and headed outside with Mama and Papa. The air outside was thick with the heat of the day, but the evening breeze was doing its best to sweep it all away. The porch swing creaked softly as Mama settled in with a glass of iced tea, her favorite blue glass clinking as she swirled the ice around. Papa leaned back in his rocking chair, his hands clasped behind his head like he didn't have a care in the world.

I plopped down on the steps, resting my elbows on my knees and letting my feet dangle just above the grass. The yard stretched out in front of me, the shadows of the pine trees casting long arms over the ground, their needles swaying in the gentle wind. I traced the grooves of my wooden fox with my thumb, feeling the ridges of its carved fur.

The lightning bugs had started their nightly dance, tiny golden lights flickering and weaving through the darkness like stars come to visit. They floated above the grass and near the edge of the porch, teasing and taunting with their soft glows. I reached out, trying to catch one, but it blinked out of sight just as my fingers brushed the air.

"Careful now," Papa said with a chuckle, the low rumble of his voice blending perfectly with the night sounds. "Those little things are trickier than they look."

The hum of the swamp animals wrapped around us like a warm quilt. Frogs croaked in a steady rhythm, their deep voices blending with the higher chirps of crickets. Every now and then, the distant call of a whip-poor-will echoed through the trees, adding a lonesome but soothing note to the symphony. The sounds filled every quiet moment between our words, like the swamp itself was part of our conversation.

"You hear that?" Mama asked, her voice soft and calm as the breeze that rustled the leaves. "That's the sound of home."

I nodded, closing my eyes for a moment to take it all in. The warm breeze carried the scent of honeysuckle and damp earth, with just a hint of smoke from the wood stove lingering in the air. It smelled like safety, like the kind of place where nothing could go wrong. The sound of the swamp animals, the sway of the swing, and the steady creak of Papa's chair felt like a lullaby meant just for us.

"It's peaceful out here," I said, opening my eyes to watch another lightning bug blink close to my feet. "I bet they don't have nights like this in big cities."

Mama smiled, her eyes soft and kind as she looked out over the yard. "No, they sure don't. But that's why we're lucky, Emily. We get to grow up with all this." She waved her hand at the night, like she was showing me something precious. The glow of the lightning bugs caught in her movement, like her hand was part of the magic, too.

Papa rocked back and forth, the rhythm of his chair matching the gentle sway of the porch swing. "When I was your age, I used to catch lightning bugs in a jar and pretend they were stars. Thought I could keep a piece of the night for myself."

"Did it work?" I asked, leaning back to look up at him, my wooden fox clutched against my chest.

He shook his head with a smile. "Not for long. They're better off out here, don't you think?"

I nodded, watching as one of the little lights blinked and floated past me, its glow fading into the trees. "Yeah, I think so."

The night wrapped around us, thick and comforting, like the swamp itself was glad to have us sitting there. We sat like that for a long time, just listening to the sounds of the swamp and watching the lightning bugs dance. The world felt big and small all at once, like it belonged just to us. Mama's iced tea glass clinked softly every now and then, Papa's chair creaked a steady rhythm, and the lightning bugs kept their secrets.

As the night deepened and the stars came out, I held my wooden fox close, feeling like I had everything I needed right here on this porch. The swamp, the stars, the lightning bugs—they were all ours tonight, and I didn't want to trade them for anything in the world.

The morning started like most others—Mama in the kitchen, humming softly as she made breakfast, and Papa already off to work. But today felt different. There was a buzz in the air, a feeling I couldn't quite place.

As I pushed my fork through my scrambled eggs, Mama set her coffee down and gave me a knowing look. "Emily, you know what's right around the corner, don't you?"

I paused mid-bite, then groaned. "School..."

Mama chuckled. "Don't sound so excited now."

"I just—" I started, but stopped. I didn't really know how to explain it. I liked learnin' and all, but school was different. There were other kids, and sometimes it felt like I didn't fit just right. I liked climbin' trees and catchin' frogs, and a lot of the girls at school liked pretty dresses and sittin' around talkin' about things I didn't care much for.

Mama must've noticed the look on my face. She reached over and gave my hand a squeeze. "You'll do just fine, sugar. You're smart as a whip, and you're kind. That's what matters."

I nodded, though I wasn't so sure. "We goin' to town for supplies?"

"That's the plan. We need notebooks, pencils, and you'll need some new shoes. You wore the soles clear through those old ones."

I glanced down at my bare feet under the table and smiled. "I like not wearin' shoes."

Mama laughed. "I know you do, but they won't let you run 'round the classroom barefoot."

We finished breakfast, and soon we were loading up in the truck, heading into town. The breeze from the open windows was warm, carrying the scent of pine and a hint of something sweet—maybe honeysuckle.

As we drove past the familiar houses and fields, I watched the trees blur by and thought about what this year at school might bring. Would it be better? Worse? I didn't know, but part of me hoped maybe I'd find someone a little like me—someone who liked swords and frogs and adventures.

I thought we were just going to the Dollar General, but Mama decided we'd head to Regency Square Mall in Jacksonville instead. When she mentioned it, I nearly dropped my fork.

"Jacksonville? Really? That's far, Mama."

"I know, sugar," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "But you need some decent shoes that'll last you all year, and the Dollar General just doesn't cut it for that. Plus, we can get all your school things in one go."

I didn't argue. A trip to the mall was special. It was bigger and busier than our little town, with bright lights, shiny floors, and stores full of things I didn't even know I wanted until I saw them.

We climbed into the truck, the seats warm from the sun. I liked the drive to Jacksonville. It was long, but the kind of long that made you feel like you were goin' somewhere important. Mama rolled down the windows, letting the warm breeze rush in as we pulled onto the highway.

For a while, we just listened to the hum of the tires and the crickets that seemed to be everywhere this time of year. But before long, I started talkin'. I always did.

"Mama, do you think I'll have the same teacher this year?"

"I don't know, baby. You liked Miss Parker, didn't you?"

I nodded. "She was nice. She let me read the chapter books even though the other kids weren't readin' them yet."

Mama smiled. "That's because you're a smart girl. You always have been. But school's more than just books. You makin' any new friends this year?"

I shrugged, kickin' my feet up on the dashboard until Mama gave me a look, and I quickly put 'em back down. "I don't know. The girls... they don't really like playin' what I like. They wanna talk about hair and wear dresses. I tried, Mama, but I don't really like all that."

Mama glanced over at me, her eyes soft. "Ain't nothin' wrong with that, Emily. You're you. And any friend worth havin' will like you just the way you are."

I fiddled with the hem of my shorts, lettin' her words settle in. "You think Papa would build me a treehouse?"

Mama laughed. "You're still on that, huh?"

"I was thinkin' maybe it could have a rope ladder... and a place to hide if I wanted to read. Like a fort."

"Well, you talk to your Papa about it when we get home. He might make you work for it, though."

"That's okay. I'd work real hard."

We passed through the outskirts of Folkston, and I perked up as we neared the railroad tracks. We slowed down at the crossing, and I craned my neck, hopin' to catch sight of a train.

"You see anything?" Mama asked, already knowin' what I was doin'.

"Not yet..." I leaned forward, eyes squinting against the sun. Then, like it was waitin' just for me, I heard the distant rumble and the low horn. "There it is!" I pointed, practically bouncin' in my seat.

The Folkston Funnel was famous 'round here. Trains from all over passed through, headin' down to Florida or up the coast. They didn't stop in Folkston, but folks still came to watch them. Sometimes, people even brought lawn chairs and cameras, sittin' by the tracks like it was a baseball game.

"That one's movin' fast," Mama said as we watched the long line of freight cars roll past. "Headin' south, I bet."

"Where do you think it's goin'?" I asked, eyes wide as the train sped through.

"Could be Jacksonville. Could be Miami. Maybe even all the way down to Key West."

I let out a low whistle. "That's far."

"Sure is. That's the thing about trains, baby—they're always goin' somewhere."

I thought about that as we drove on, the train disappearin' into the distance. Sometimes, I wished I could hop on one of those trains and see where it went. Maybe it'd take me somewhere with pirates or cowboys—or a place where I could build a treehouse so high up it touched the sky.

The rest of the drive was quieter, but it felt good—just me and Mama, the windows down, the warm Georgia breeze tangled in our hair. Jacksonville Mall wasn't far now. Soon, we'd be walking through those big glass doors, pickin' out notebooks, pencils, and maybe—just maybe—some shoes that didn't pinch my toes.

But for now, I was happy right where I was.

The drive to Jacksonville felt like it took forever, but when we finally pulled into the parking lot of Regency Square Mall, I perked up. The place was big—way bigger than anywhere back home in Folkston.

But what caught my eye right away was the AMC Theatres across the parking lot, its bright sign standing tall above the cars. A huge movie poster hung on the side of the building, showing a spaceship zippin' through the stars with a group of cartoon characters aboard.

Disney Pixar's The Enchanted Galaxy.

I pressed my face to the window before Mama even parked. "Mama, look! That's the new movie I was talkin' about. Can we see it sometime? Please?"

Mama glanced over, smiling as she shifted the truck into park. "We'll see, sugar. Maybe we can come back with Papa one weekend."

I sat back with a sigh, but my eyes stayed on that poster. It looked like the kind of movie that would make you wanna run outside and pretend you were explorin' planets as soon as it was over.

Once we got inside the mall, the cool air hit me, and I felt a little better about not seein' the movie—at least for now. Mama led me straight toward Jimmy Jazz, one of the shoe stores she liked. It was loud inside, with music thumpin' through the speakers and racks of sneakers that seemed to go on forever.

Rows of bright, clean shoes lined the walls—reds, blues, yellows, ones with stripes, and some with shiny silver designs. I wandered over to a shelf with sneakers that had little splashes of purple and orange. They looked fast, like the kind you'd wear if you needed to race through the woods and leap over stumps like a deer.

Mama was already chattin' with a saleslady. "We're lookin' for something sturdy. She's rough on her shoes."

The lady laughed. "We got just the thing."

A few minutes later, I was tryin' on a pair of white sneakers with blue and green on the sides. I walked back and forth a few times, even jogged a little when Mama wasn't lookin'.

"These feel good," I said, grinnin'. "Real good."

Mama nodded, satisfied. "That'll last you through the school year—if you don't go climbin' too many trees in 'em."

I made no promises.

As we paid, I snuck another glance toward the glass doors of the mall, where the AMC sign was still visible through the windows. I wondered if anyone was sittin' in those theater seats right now, watchin' the spaceship blast off into the galaxy.

After we left Jimmy Jazz, Mama led me toward the part of the mall where they sold school supplies. We passed a few clothing stores, and I stared up at a big sign with models wearing fancy jeans and jackets that didn't look the least bit comfortable.

Mama noticed me eyein' it and smirked. "Don't worry, we're not buyin' you any of those."

"Good," I said. "They look like they'd be hard to climb trees in."

We made our way into a store that had shelves stacked high with notebooks, pens, crayons, and all kinds of things. The smell of new paper and plastic filled the air, and the floors were so shiny I could see my reflection when I looked down.

Mama pulled out her list. "Alright, we need some notebooks, pencils, a couple folders... and—Emily, stop playin' with the rulers."

I had been tappin' a plastic ruler against my hand like it was a sword.

"Sorry," I mumbled, putting it back.

As we worked our way through the aisles, I helped pick out a notebook with blue swirls on the cover and a pencil box with little frogs printed on it. Mama let me pick some crayons even though I was old enough for colored pencils now. I still liked crayons. They felt simple, and they smelled nice.

When we finished up, we stepped back into the main part of the mall, and that's when I noticed it—a big sign, way taller than me, with bold letters:

IMPACT CHURCH.

The doors were glass, but I couldn't see much inside. The windows were tinted, and everything about it just seemed... bigger than I expected. Bigger than our little white church back home. It looked important, like the kind of place you had to dress real nice to walk into.

I tugged on Mama's hand. "Mama... why is there a church in the mall?"

Mama glanced over. "Oh, that's Impact Church. It's a big one. Some churches don't look like ours. They don't all have steeples or sit out in the country. Some are right in places like this."

"In a mall?" I wrinkled my nose. "That's kinda weird, ain't it?"

Mama smiled. "It might seem that way, but it's still church. Doesn't matter what the buildin' looks like. Long as folks are there together, praisin' the Lord, that's what counts."

I thought about that as we started walkin' again. I peeked back at the doors, still wonderin' what it looked like inside. It was kinda funny—right there next to a shoe store and across from a place sellin' phone cases, there was a whole church.

Maybe it wasn't so different, though. Maybe church could be anywhere, as long as you had the right people with you.

I slipped my hand into Mama's as we walked toward the food court, my new shoes swingin' in the bag by my side, and my mind still wonderin' about all the different ways folks found their way to God.

After we finished getting my school supplies, Mama checked her watch.

"Well, we've got a little time. Anything else you want to look at before we go?" she asked.

I thought for a second. "Can we go to the toy store? Just to look?"

Mama raised an eyebrow, but she was smiling. "Alright, but just lookin'. We've spent enough today."

I grinned and followed her through the mall. We ended up in a store filled with shelves stacked high with toys—board games, action figures, dolls, and those little animal figurines I liked collectin'. I wandered down the aisles, pickin' things up, pushin' buttons that made noises, and dreamin' about all the cool stuff I'd buy if I ever had a million dollars.

I lingered by a display of plastic dinosaurs, runnin' my fingers over a bright red T-Rex with its mouth wide open. I pretended it was stompin' through our backyard, chasin' Ruby and the other chickens around while I fought it off with my stick-sword.

Mama let me wander for a bit before callin', "Alright, Emily, time to head out."

I sighed, puttin' the T-Rex back. "Okay, Mama."

On our way toward the exit, my stomach let out a loud growl. Mama heard it, and we both laughed.

"I guess all that shoppin' worked up an appetite," she said. "How about we get a bite before we head home?"

"Can we get fries?" I asked, my eyes lightin' up.

"I reckon we can manage that," Mama said with a wink.

We drove down the road and pulled into a Burger King. The smell of fries and burgers hit me the second we stepped inside. I ordered a kid's meal with nuggets and got one of those little plastic toys inside. It was some kind of robot that looked like it transformed into a car, though I couldn't quite figure it out.

Mama got a burger, and we sat by the window, watchin' cars pass by while we ate. I dipped my fries in ketchup, takin' my time because fast food was a rare treat.

"You excited for school now that you got all your stuff?" Mama asked between bites.

I shrugged. "A little. I just hope this year's better than last."

Mama reached over and squeezed my hand. "I think it will be. And even if it's not, you'll get through it. You're strong."

That made me smile. "Thanks, Mama."

After we finished, we got back in the truck and started the drive home. The sun was lower in the sky now, hangin' just above the trees, and the road stretched out long and straight in front of us.

As we passed by Walmart, I sat up a little.

"Mama... why didn't we just go there for everything?" I asked. "They got shoes and school stuff too."

Mama laughed softly, keepin' her eyes on the road. "Oh, I know, but I like goin' to the mall sometimes. Feels nice, like a little adventure. Plus, that mall has more choices for shoes. And we got to spend some time together."

I thought about it, then nodded. "Yeah... I guess I like it better too."

"Good," Mama said. "Besides, if we went to Walmart, we'd probably still be in there, tryin' to get out."

We both laughed because it was true. Walmart was big, and sometimes it felt like you could get lost in there.

The drive home was peaceful. We passed the train tracks again, but no train this time. The sky turned pink and purple, and the trees along the highway cast long shadows over the road.

I leaned my head against the window, watchin' the trees blur by. My belly was full, my feet had new shoes, and my backpack was gonna be packed with fresh supplies for school.

It had been a good day.

The morning sun peeked over the trees as I stood by the front door, my backpack slung over my shoulder and my new shoes laced up tight. Today was the first day of third grade at Folkston Elementary, and even though I was nervous, I was a little excited too.

Mama smoothed my hair down, even though I knew it would get messy again before I made it to the bus stop. "You ready, sugar?"

"I think so," I said, though my stomach was doing little flips.

"Don't forget your lunch," she said, handin' me a brown paper bag.

I took it and peeked inside—peanut butter and jelly, an apple, and some crackers. Just what I liked.

I walked to the bus stop down the dirt road, feelin' the warmth of the morning sun on my back. My heart raced as I wondered who'd be in my class this year. Would Miss Parker still be my teacher? Would the other girls still whisper about their dresses and hair?

Up ahead, I spotted her—Abby Parker, my best friend since we were little. She was wearin' her usual shorts and a t-shirt, her backpack slung low on her back. Her blonde hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and the second she saw me, she grinned.

"Emily!" she called, waving like she hadn't seen me in years, even though we'd been fishin' at the creek just last week.

"Abby!" I shouted back, runnin' up to meet her.

"You ready for third grade?" she asked, though her tone made it sound like we were headin' into battle.

"As ready as I'll ever be," I said with a grin.

We fell into step together, talkin' about what we thought this year would be like—whether we'd get to sit next to each other, and if Miss Parker, her aunt, was still teachin' third grade. Abby told me she heard there was a new boy in our grade, and we both wondered what he'd be like.

When the bus finally arrived, we climbed on together, sittin' in our usual spot near the middle. I felt a little braver knowin' Abby was right there beside me.

When we got to Folkston Elementary, the bus hissed to a stop, and Abby and I hopped down onto the gravel. Kids were everywhere—runnin', laughin', huggin' friends they hadn't seen all summer. The building looked the same as always, with its brick walls and windows that rattled a little when the wind blew just right.

I was feelin' pretty good—until we stepped into our classroom.

That's when I saw him.

A man was standin' at the front, writin' his name on the chalkboard in big, neat letters.

Mr. Johnson.

Not Miss Parker.

My heart sank. I looked at Abby, and she must've felt the same way 'cause her face had that same confused look.

"Where's your aunt?" I whispered.

Abby shrugged. "I dunno. Mama didn't say nothin' about her not teachin' this year."

I slid into a seat near the window, suddenly not feelin' as excited anymore. I had been hoping and hoping all summer that we'd get Miss Parker again. She was always so kind—let me read ahead when I wanted, didn't mind when I asked a million questions, and never fussed when my shoes were a little muddy from playin' outside before school.

Mr. Johnson looked nice enough, I guess. He had brown hair that was kinda messy, and he wore a blue shirt with his sleeves rolled up. He smiled as more kids came in, but it wasn't the same.

I leaned over to Abby. "What if he's mean?"

She snorted. "He don't look mean. But I liked your aunt better."

"Me too."

Mr. Johnson clapped his hands together once we were all settled. "Alright, third graders. Welcome back! We're gonna have a great year."

I tried sittin' up a little straighter, but my heart still felt heavy. I kept glancin' at the door, half-hopin' Miss Parker would walk in and say there was some kind of mistake. But she didn't.

Mr. Johnson grabbed a clipboard off his desk. "Let's start with attendance. Gotta make sure I know who's who."

He started readin' names, his voice calm but firm. "Abby Parker?"

"Here," Abby said, sittin' up a little taller.

"Thomas Reed?"

"Here."

I waited, twiddlin' my thumbs under the desk. Each name felt like it took forever. Then finally—

"Emily Saunders?"

"Here," I said, maybe a little louder than I meant to. My voice cracked just a bit.

Mr. Johnson glanced up and smiled. "Good. Gotcha."

I gave a small nod, but my mind was still on Miss Parker. Her classroom had always felt warm—like you could breathe easy. This? This just felt different. I didn't know if it was bad... but it wasn't what I wanted.

When Mr. Johnson finished callin' names, he set the clipboard down and leaned against his desk. "Looks like we've got a good bunch this year. I'm new to third grade, but I've been teaching for a long time. We'll get along just fine."

I glanced at Abby. She gave me a quick smile, like she was sayin', "See? It's okay."

I smiled back... but it still didn't feel okay. Not yet.

After Mr. Johnson finished attendance, he clapped his hands together, like he was wakin' us all up.

"Alright, class. Let's get started with math," he said, picking up a piece of chalk. "This year, we'll be learning multiplication."

I felt my stomach twist up a little. I liked math, but multiplication sounded like one of those big, grown-up words that made my head hurt.

"We're gonna start with the zeros," he continued, writing Multiplication – 0s on the board. "Now, who knows what multiplication means?"

A few kids raised their hands. Jacob, the boy who always acted like he knew everything, spoke up first.

"It's just like adding, right? You just add the number together over and over."

Mr. Johnson nodded slowly. "Hmm... kinda, but not exactly. We'll talk more about that soon. Let's try some examples."

He wrote 0 x 1 = ? on the board.

"Anyone know what this is?" he asked.

Jacob raised his hand again. "One?"

Mr. Johnson didn't say anything right away. He just looked at the board and let Jacob's answer hang in the air.

A few other kids started noddin'. "Yeah, it's one. 'Cause zero plus one is one," Jessica said.

Mr. Johnson smiled a little but didn't give the answer. "Okay... What about this one?"

He wrote 0 x 2 = ?

"Two!" Jacob blurted out.

"Three!" someone else called.

I furrowed my brow. It didn't sound right to me. I stared at those zeros. Somethin' about them felt... empty.

Mr. Johnson kept goin', writin' 0 x 3 = ?

"Three!" a girl in the back said.

"Wait," I whispered to Abby. "That don't make sense."

She shrugged. "It's like addin', right?"

I thought hard, my eyes fixed on the zeros.

Then it clicked.

My hand shot up, and before he even called on me, the words spilled out. "It's zero!"

Mr. Johnson finally turned from the board. "Why do you say that, Emily?"

"'Cause... you don't got nothin' to add together," I said, feelin' my cheeks get warm. "Zero's nothin', right? So if you do nothin' two times... you still got nothin'. It don't matter how many times you do it."

The room got quiet.

Mr. Johnson grinned. "That's it. That's exactly it."

He circled the zeros on the board. "See, multiplication is like adding the same number over and over, but if you're starting with zero, you've got nothing to add. So the answer is always zero."

A few kids groaned. Jacob looked like he'd swallowed a lemon.

Abby leaned over and whispered, "You're smart."

I grinned. "I know."

Mr. Johnson clapped his hands together. "Alright, now let's try some more—together this time."

As we worked through the problems, I felt a little taller in my seat. Maybe multiplication wasn't so scary after all.

After math, Mr. Johnson set his chalk down and dusted his hands off like he was ready to move on.

"All right, class. Let's shift gears to reading," he said, his words crisp and clear, each letter sounding just the way it should. His voice was different from most folks around here—no dropping letters or stretching words. It was proper, the kind of talk you heard on the news sometimes.

Readin'—reading—was my favorite. Always had been. I sat up a little straighter, even though my hand was already sore from writin' out all those zero times tables.

Mr. Johnson picked up a neat stack of thin books from his desk. They looked brand new, with bright covers showing kids playin' outside and dogs chasin' sticks.

"We'll begin with these readers," he said, walkin' between our desks and handing them out. "Today, we'll take turns reading aloud. Just a few sentences each. No need to rush. The important thing is to read each word clearly."

I took my book and flipped through it. There were stories about kids fishin'—fishing—by a pond, and others with talking animals. It wasn't as good as the chapter books I read at home, but it was still a book. And that made it all right.

Once everyone had a book, Mr. Johnson paused, looking at all of us. "Before we start, I want to say something important. We're going to work on not just reading the words, but how we say them. You all are bright, wonderful students, but sometimes we get a little too relaxed when we speak. We might drop letters off the end of our words or mash things together."

I squirmed a little. I knew what he meant. I did it all the time—fishin', runnin', talkin'—it was just the way folks spoke around here.

"But speaking clearly is important," Mr. Johnson went on. "It'll help you later in life—whether you're applying for a job, talking to someone important, or even reading to your own children someday."

I nodded slowly. I liked the way Papa talked, all easy and familiar, but I understood what Mr. Johnson meant. I wanted to sound smart when it mattered.

We started reading out loud, and just like in math, some kids struggled. Jacob stumbled over words, and Jessica rushed like she was late for the bus. When it was my turn, I read steady, but I caught myself sayin' fixin' instead of fixing, and I cringed a little.

Mr. Johnson smiled when I finished. "Very good, Emily. You read smoothly. And just remember, we're all working on making those endings nice and clear—ing, not in. You'll get there."

I smiled, feelin' both proud and a little embarrassed.

As we moved on, I noticed Abby wasn't as into it. She liked drawin' more than readin', and that was okay. We were different, but we fit together just right.

When the lesson ended, Mr. Johnson closed his book. "Great start today. We'll get better every day. And remember—clear words, clear minds."

As we closed our books, I thought about it. I liked the way Mama and Papa spoke, but maybe it wouldn't hurt to learn both ways—so I could talk clear when it mattered, and still sound like me when I was home.

Maybe this year was gonna teach me more than I thought.

After reading, we had another class—science, I think—but my mind was startin' to wander by then. We learned a little about plants, how their roots dig down deep to drink water from the ground, and how leaves need sunlight to stay green. I liked the part about the roots, 'cause it made me think of the big oak tree in our yard—the one I loved climbin'. I wondered how far its roots stretched under the ground, maybe all the way past the chicken coop.

But mostly, I was watchin' the clock.

By the time Mr. Johnson set his book down and said, "Alright, let's head outside for recess," I was already halfway out of my seat.

Abby grinned at me. We both knew recess was the best part of the day.

We hurried outside with the rest of the kids, the warm Georgia sun hittin' my face the second we stepped onto the playground. The air smelled like fresh grass and a little bit like sweat. The blacktop was already hot under our shoes, but I didn't care. I was free—for a little while, at least.

The swings were already taken, and a group of boys was kickin' a soccer ball around. Me and Abby made a beeline for the old tire structure near the edge of the playground. It had been there forever—half-buried tires stickin' out of the ground like a little obstacle course. We liked climbin' over them and pretendin' they were part of some adventure, like we were explorin' ruins or battlin' pirates.

"You think we'll get homework today?" Abby asked, balancin' on top of one of the bigger tires.

"Hope not," I said, climbin' up beside her. "I got frogs to catch after school."

She laughed. "Of course you do."

We jumped from tire to tire, our backpacks and classrooms far from our minds. For a little while, it was just the sun, the dirt, and our imaginations.

While me and Abby were hoppin' across the tires, a group of boys started gatherin' near the soccer field. Jacob was leadin' them—he always liked to act like he was in charge. They were kickin' a ball around, but it wasn't just a game. I could tell from the way they were lookin' over our way. Somethin' was brewin'.

"Hey, Emily!" Jacob called out, hands cupped around his mouth. "You girls too scared to play?"

I looked at Abby, who was smirkin'.

"We ain't scared of nothin'," I shot back.

A few girls nearby perked up, hearin' what was goin' on. Jessica and Megan came over, eyes bright with curiosity.

Jacob grinned. "Boys against girls. Soccer. Right now."

I felt my heart race. I loved stuff like this. It was all in fun, but it felt important—like we had somethin' to prove. And I liked playin' with the boys sometimes. I felt like I could keep up with them, even if some of the girls didn't always like gettin' dirty.

I glanced at Abby. "You in?"

She shrugged but was smilin'. "Why not?"

"Y'all are goin' down," I called back to Jacob.

"We'll see about that!" he laughed.

It wasn't serious—nothin' more than a bunch of kids kickin' a ball around—but it felt like a big deal to us. The boys played rough, runnin' fast and callin' out plays like they were in some big league. Us girls, though? We were quick. And we had somethin' to prove.

The ball shot across the field, and I sprinted after it, feelin' my heart pound in my chest. My new shoes gripped the grass better than my old ones would've, and I was glad Mama had taken me to get them.

Jacob was quick—he always was—but I was quicker. I darted in front of him, stretchin' my leg out just in time to nudge the ball away. He stumbled a little, but he laughed, not mad, just more determined.

"Nice one, Emily!" Abby cheered from the side, clappin' her hands.

I grinned but didn't look back. I kept chasin' the ball, zig-zaggin' between the boys. Jessica was on my right, and Megan was further back, ready to block if the ball got kicked our way. We were workin' together, and it felt good—like we were our own little team.

"Pass it, Emily!" Jessica called.

I kicked the ball toward her, but it went a little off course. Jacob darted in, interceptin' it. He turned and charged toward the other side of the field.

"No, you don't!" I yelled, takin' off after him.

I caught up, but he passed it to Thomas, one of his friends, and suddenly, it felt like the boys were gettin' the upper hand. They were fast, but we were smart.

"Block him, Abby!" I called.

She dashed in front of Thomas, wavin' her arms. He hesitated, and that's all it took. I slid in, kickin' the ball out from under him.

"Got it!" I shouted, feelin' the thrill rush through me.

I dribbled fast toward the goal—well, the "goal," which was really just two jackets laid down as markers. Jacob was hot on my heels, and I knew if I waited too long, he'd catch me.

I planted my foot and kicked as hard as I could.

The ball flew—straight between the jackets.

"GOAL!" Abby screamed, throwin' her hands up.

The girls cheered, and I threw my arms in the air like I'd just won the World Cup.

Jacob huffed, hands on his hips, but he was smilin'. "Alright, alright... that was good."

I wiped the sweat off my brow, grinnin' so wide my cheeks hurt.

"We ain't done yet," Jacob said, pickin' up the ball.

I glanced at Abby, and she gave me a nod. We were ready.

For the rest of recess, we ran, laughed, and played our hearts out—Boys vs. Girls. There weren't any real winners or losers, just a bunch of kids runnin' wild under the hot sun, feelin' free.

When the whistle blew, callin' us back inside, we were all pantin', sweaty, and smilin'.

"That was fun," Jacob said, joggin' up beside me as we walked back toward the school.

"Yeah, it was," I agreed.

"We'll get y'all next time," he teased.

I smirked. "We'll see about that."

Me and Abby bumped fists as we stepped inside, our faces still flushed from runnin'.

It was only the first day of school, but it already felt like this year might just be a good one.

By the time we made it back inside, my shirt was stickin' to my back, and my face was hot from runnin' in the sun. The air conditioning in the hallway felt like heaven.

Me and Abby made our way to the cafeteria, still talkin' about the soccer game.

"You almost tripped Jacob that one time," I said, laughin'.

"I wasn't tryin' to," Abby giggled. "He just runs like a baby deer."

We grabbed our lunches—me with my brown paper bag Mama packed, and Abby with her lunch box that had faded rainbows on it. We found a seat at the long table near the window, where you could see part of the playground.

I pulled out my sandwich, an apple, and some crackers. Abby had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, too, but she also had one of those little snack cakes with chocolate and cream in the middle. I eyed it.

"You tradin' that cake?" I asked, half-teasin'.

She held it close to her chest. "Not today."

I laughed and took a bite of my sandwich.

Kids were chatterin' all around us, the cafeteria fillin' with the sound of crinklin' wrappers and clinkin' milk cartons. The boys from the soccer game sat a few seats down, still jokin' around, talkin' about how they'd win tomorrow.

Jacob called over, "We're bringin' our best game tomorrow!"

"We ain't scared," I shot back, smilin'.

Me and Abby talked about everything and nothin'—what we'd do after school, what frogs I was plannin' to catch, and whether or not we'd get homework on the first day.

Before we ate, Abby bowed her head for a quick prayer over her food. I did the same, whisperin' a quiet "Thank you, Lord" like Mama always taught me.

When I peeked up, I noticed not everyone prayed. Some kids just started eatin' right away. I wondered if they did it different at home, but I didn't think too much about it. Everyone was just doin' their own thing.

By the time the lunch lady rang the little bell, signalin' we had five minutes left, my belly was full, and I felt pretty good about the day so far. Even if I still missed Miss Parker, and even if Mr. Johnson wanted me to say running instead of runnin', school didn't seem so bad.

At least not with Abby sittin' next to me.

After lunch, Mr. Johnson led us down the hall to art class. The classroom smelled like paper, glue, and those thick crayons that always left little bits of wax behind when you pressed too hard. Art had always been one of my favorite classes—mostly 'cause you could make a mess and no one got onto you for it.

The art teacher, Mrs. Wilson, stood at the front of the room, wearing a long necklace with colorful beads. She had short, dark hair, and her smile was bright like she'd been waitin' all summer just to see us.

"Good afternoon, class," she said, "Welcome back. Today, we're starting off easy. I want you to draw a picture of something from your summer. It could be a place you visited, something you did, or just a special memory."

I sat up straighter, already thinkin' about what I wanted to draw. I liked art because no one could tell you your picture was wrong—it was yours.

Most kids got right to work, sketchin' beaches, houses, or stick-figure families. Abby was drawin' her dog, Max, chasin' a ball.

Me? I picked somethin' a little different.

I started drawin' Papa cleanin' that gator he shot. I drew him standin' by the porch with his knife, the big gator stretched out beside him. I even added myself, standin' nearby with my hands on my hips, proud as could be. And I made sure to draw Mama, peekin' out the door with a look on her face that said she wasn't too happy about it.

I was colorin' the gator's tail when Mrs. Wilson stopped by my desk. She leaned down to look at my paper.

"Oh, my," she said with a small laugh. "Is that an alligator?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said proudly. "My Papa shot it. We ate it for supper."

Her eyebrows lifted just a little, but she didn't look upset. "Well, that's certainly a unique summer memory. Very detailed work, Emily. I like that you included your whole family."

"Thank you, ma'am," I said, smilin' big.

As she walked to the next table, Abby leaned over and peeked at my picture.

"You really drew the gator?" she whispered, tryin' not to giggle.

"Course I did," I said, addin' a little more green to its scales. "It was the best part of my summer."

She grinned. "You're crazy."

I grinned right back. Bein' called crazy by Abby felt like a compliment.

The rest of art class flew by, and by the time we packed up, I felt like maybe third grade wasn't gonna be so bad after all.

After art, we had one last stop before the day was done—music class.

We followed Mr. Johnson down the hallway, and even before we got to the door, I could hear the soft notes of a piano playin' from inside. I liked music class well enough, even if singin' wasn't my best thing. Sometimes they let us play instruments, and I always hoped for the drums.

The music teacher, Mrs. Taylor, was at the front of the room when we walked in, her silver hair pulled back neatly and a warm smile on her face. Her fingers moved gently over the piano keys, like she'd been playin' forever.

"Good afternoon, class," she said, her voice smooth and proper. "Welcome to music. I hope you're all ready for a wonderful year."

We sat down on the floor, cross-legged, in a big semi-circle around her. The floor was that scratchy carpet kind, but I didn't mind. Bein' close to the front made me feel like I was really part of things.

Abby plopped down beside me, leanin' back on her hands. "Hope we get the tambourines," she whispered.

I grinned. I was hopin' for drums, but tambourines weren't bad either.

Mrs. Taylor started us off easy. She taught us a song—one of those folksy ones with hand motions and clappin'.

"This land is your land, this land is my land..."

Most of us knew it already, but singin' it together felt kinda nice. Some kids sang loud, like they were tryin' to drown everyone else out, and others were barely mumblin'. I did my best, even though my voice cracked a little when we got to the high parts.

After we finished the song, Mrs. Taylor sat on the edge of her piano bench and clapped her hands lightly.

"Very good," she said. "Now, music isn't just about the words—it's about rhythm. Rhythm is the heartbeat of music. It's what holds a song together."

She showed us a few simple clappin' patterns—clap, clap, pat your knees, clap—stuff that made you focus but was still kinda fun.

Then she passed out rhythm sticks—two wooden sticks, smooth and shiny. We tapped 'em together along with the beat she played on the piano.

Tap, tap, tap—pause. Tap, tap, tap—pause.

It felt good, like we were makin' music together, even if it was just simple taps. The sound of all the sticks clickin' at the same time filled the room. It reminded me of rain on the roof.

When the class was over, Mrs. Taylor smiled as she collected the sticks.

"You all did very well today," she said. "We're going to learn so much this year. Music is all around you—sometimes you just need to listen."

I liked that. It made me wanna pay attention more—to the birds at home, the sound of frogs near the creek, even the creak of Papa's truck when he pulled into the driveway.

We lined up to head back to Mr. Johnson's room, and as I walked, I tapped my fingers against my leg—keepin' the rhythm goin' all the way down the hall.

By the time the final bell rang, I was feelin' that good kind of tired—the kind where your feet ache a little, but your head's full of new things, and your belly's still happy from lunch.

Me and Abby grabbed our backpacks and made our way out to the bus loop. The afternoon sun was still high, bakin' the pavement, and the smell of hot asphalt mixed with the faint scent of pine trees from the woods nearby. Kids were chatterin' everywhere, some excited, some just ready to get home.

When our yellow bus pulled up with a loud hiss, we climbed aboard, headin' straight for our usual seat near the middle.

I plopped down next to the window, and Abby slid in beside me, tossin' her backpack onto her lap.

"Well, what'd you think?" she asked, leanin' her head back against the seat.

"Better than I thought it'd be," I admitted, lookin' out the window as the bus jolted forward. "I mean... I still wish we had Miss Parker, but Mr. Johnson seems alright. Even if he wants me to say reading instead of readin' all the time."

Abby snorted. "I heard him correct Jacob like three times. Bet he's gonna drive him crazy."

I laughed. "Jacob needs it."

We hit a bump, and the whole bus bounced, makin' a few kids squeal. The driver, Mr. Miller, just grunted up front like he was used to it.

"What was your favorite part?" Abby asked, twirlin' a loose strand of hair.

I thought for a second. "Probably recess. That soccer game was fun. We showed those boys we can play just as good as them."

Abby grinned. "Yeah, but you know Jacob's gonna come back tomorrow like it's the championship."

"Good," I said, sittin' up straighter. "I like a challenge."

We rode in silence for a minute, watchin' the trees whip by. As the bus rounded the curve toward our road, I spotted it—the train, crawlin' along the tracks in the distance, back toward town.

"You see it?" I said, pointin' out the window.

Abby leaned over to look. "Yeah. Looks like a long one today."

The cars clanged together as they rolled along, the sound faint from where we were, but still there if you listened.

"I wish it stopped here," I said, watchin' the train snake through the trees. "It'd be cool to get on one and see where it goes."

Abby shrugged. "I don't know. I kinda like it here."

I smiled, but part of me still wondered what it'd be like to hop on that train and just... go somewhere new.

As we got closer to our stop, the bus started to thin out. Some kids waved as they hopped off, runnin' down dirt driveways toward houses that looked a lot like mine—porches, gardens, and big yards with dogs barkin'.

When we got near my road, I nudged Abby. "You comin' over later?"

"Maybe," she said. "Depends if Mama makes me clean my room."

I laughed. "You'd rather wrestle a gator."

"Pretty much."

The bus slowed down, and I stood up, slingin' my backpack over my shoulder. Mr. Miller glanced at me in the mirror, noddin'.

"See you tomorrow," Abby called as I stepped down onto the dusty road.

I waved back. "See you."

The bus rumbled off, leavin' me standin' there with my backpack slung over one shoulder. I could hear the faint hum of the bus engine disappearin' down the dirt road, mixed with the sounds of nature all around me—the chirpin' of crickets and the distant croak of frogs floatin' from the direction of the swamp.

I stood still for a second, breathin' it all in. The warm air smelled earthy, with just a hint of that swampy dampness that always seemed to hang in the air. It felt like home.

The train was long gone, back toward town, pretty sure it was miles away now. Out here, it was just me, the trees, and the swamp breathin' in the distance.

I adjusted my backpack and started walkin' up the path toward the house, the familiar creak of the porch callin' me home.

My heart felt full—like today had been a good start.

And I was already thinkin' about what tomorrow might bring.

I kicked up little puffs of dust as I walked up the path toward the house, my backpack feelin' heavier than it did this mornin'. The sun was sittin' lower in the sky now, but the air was still thick and warm, the kinda heat that stuck to your skin.

As I got closer, I could see Mama out on the porch, rockin' slowly in her chair with a glass of sweet tea restin' on the little side table. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and her eyes squinted against the sun as she saw me comin'.

"Hey there, baby," she called, smilin'. "How was your first day?"

I climbed the steps and dropped my backpack beside the door with a heavy thud.

"It was good," I said, ploppin' down on the top step. "I mean, it wasn't the same without Miss Parker, but I like Mr. Johnson okay. He's real big on makin' sure we say our words proper."

Mama chuckled. "Well, that ain't a bad thing."

I leaned back on my hands, feelin' the warmth of the wood under my palms.

"We had recess, and me and the girls played soccer against the boys. We beat 'em."

Mama raised her eyebrows. "You don't say?"

"Yep," I said proudly. "Jacob thought they had it in the bag, but we showed 'em."

"Well, look at you. Showin' those boys not to underestimate the girls." She winked. "What else?"

"We did multiplication, startin' with the zeros. And I knew all the answers, 'cause zero times anything is always zero."

Mama nodded. "Smart girl."

"Oh! And we had art. I drew Papa cleanin' that gator."

Mama's face twisted like she was rememberin' that day. "Lord have mercy, Emily..."

I laughed. "Mrs. Wilson liked it! Said it was 'detailed work.'"

Mama shook her head, smilin' anyway. "You're somethin' else."

We sat there a minute, listenin' to the sounds of the swamp driftin' from beyond the trees—the croakin' frogs, the buzzin' of bugs, and the occasional rustle of somethin' bigger movin' through the brush. The kind of sounds that let you know you were home.

"You hungry?" Mama asked after a bit.

"A little."

"Well, why don't you wash up and help me peel some taters? We'll get supper started before Papa gets back."

"Yes, ma'am."

Mama handed me a bowl and a peeler, along with a few lumpy taters that still had bits of dirt clingin' to 'em.

"Here you go, baby. Start peelin' those while I get the skillet ready," she said, turnin' toward the stove.

I sat down at the kitchen table, takin' a tater in my hand and draggin' the peeler across its skin. The rough brown peel curled off in strips, fallin' into the bowl like little ribbons. I liked helpin' in the kitchen—least when it wasn't somethin' too hard. Peelin' taters was easy. Just me, my hands, and that soft scratchin' sound as the peeler worked.

"So, what's this Mr. Johnson like, really?" Mama asked, her back to me as she poured oil into the skillet.

I shrugged. "He's nice, but he talks real proper. Keeps correctin' us when we say things like 'goin'' instead of 'going.' Wants us to sound smart."

Mama chuckled. "Nothin' wrong with soundin' smart. Though folks 'round here ain't ever gonna stop speakin' the way we are, no matter what he wants."

I laughed. "I reckon not."

Mama stirred the oil around the pan, and the warm smell started fillin' the kitchen—the kind that made my belly rumble a little louder.

I was halfway through my third tater when I heard the sound I always waited for—the low hum of Papa's truck rollin' up the dirt road. Tires crunchin' slow over gravel, then the familiar rattle as it came to a stop near the porch.

I perked up right away. "Papa's home!"

Mama wiped her hands on her apron. "Go on, let him know supper's almost ready."

I shot up, leavin' the half-peeled tater behind, and ran outside barefoot onto the porch. Papa was climbin' out of his truck, stretchin' his back like he'd been bent over wood all day. His work shirt was dusty, and his boots were caked with sawdust and dirt. His face was tired, but when he saw me, he smiled.

"Hey there, kiddo," he said, his voice warm. "How was school?"

"Good!" I said, grinnin'. "We beat the boys at soccer!"

He laughed, pullin' his toolbox from the back of the truck. "That right? Those boys better learn not to mess with you."

"Yes, sir!" I said proudly.

I followed him up the steps, my little wooden fox still sittin' right where I left it that mornin', guardin' the porch like a treasure.

"Mama says supper's almost ready," I added as we stepped inside.

"Music to my ears," Papa said, wipin' his forehead. He leaned over and kissed Mama on the cheek. "Smells good in here."

"Fried pork chops and taters," she said. "Figured you'd be hungry after today."

"You figured right," he said, settin' his toolbox by the door.

I went back to finish peelin' the last tater while Papa washed up at the sink. His rough hands were stained from work, but he scrubbed 'em best he could before dryin' off.

Soon, the smell of sizzlin' pork chops filled the kitchen, mixin' with the cracklin' of the taters Mama had tossed into the hot oil.

We all sat down together, holdin' hands while Papa gave thanks for the food, for our family, and for another good day.

"Amen," we all said, and I dug in, that first crunchy bite of fried tater tastin' like home.

I listened while Papa talked about the cabinet he'd been buildin' for Mrs. Jenkins and how her dog kept stealin' his tools when he wasn't lookin'. Mama laughed, shakin' her head, and I told Papa more about school—about Mr. Johnson, and how he wanted us to speak proper.

"Well," Papa said, takin' a sip of his sweet tea, "ain't nothin' wrong with speakin' proper when you need to. But you don't forget where you come from either."

I grinned. That sounded just right to me.

As the sun started settin' outside, I felt it again—that feelin' of bein' right where I belonged. School was fine, but home... home was my favorite place to be.

After supper, my belly was full, and my eyes felt a little heavy, but the day wasn't over just yet. As Mama started cleanin' up the dishes, Papa stretched back in his chair, lettin' out a satisfied sigh.

"That was some good eatin'," he said, patting his stomach.

"Yes, sir," I agreed, my mouth still tastin' a bit like fried pork chops and taters.

I saw Papa glance toward the porch, and I knew what that meant. Every now and then, when the air cooled off a little, and the day was slowin' down, he liked to sit out there—just listenin' to the sounds of the swamp and the breeze through the trees.

"You comin', kiddo?" he asked.

"You bet!" I said, already pushin' back from the table.

We stepped out onto the porch, the old boards creakin' under our feet. The sun had dropped low, leavin' the sky painted in shades of pink and purple. The air was thick with the sound of frogs croakin' and crickets chirpin'. In the distance, I could even hear the faint call of a barred owl, echoing through the trees like it was askin', "Who cooks for you?"

I plopped down on the top step, lettin' my bare feet dangle, while Papa eased into his rocker. He leaned back with a soft creak, his eyes driftin' toward the tree line.

We didn't talk much at first. We didn't have to. Bein' out here, surrounded by the sounds of home, felt good all on its own.

After a minute, I broke the quiet. "Papa... you ever wish you could go somewhere far away? Like... on one of those trains?"

He glanced over at me, his face thoughtful. "Hmm... maybe once or twice, when I was younger. Thought about seein' other places. But then, I always figured... everything I need's right here."

I nodded slowly, lettin' that sink in.

"I guess I just wonder sometimes what it'd be like," I said. "Like... seein' big cities, or mountains, or maybe even the ocean."

Papa smiled. "Ain't nothin' wrong with wonderin'. And if you ever get the itch to go see all that when you're older, you should. But just remember... no matter where you go, this place'll always be home."

I looked out toward the woods, the shadows stretchin' longer now, almost touchin' the porch.

"I like home," I said quietly.

Papa nodded. "Me too."

The air was startin' to cool, but I stayed put, listenin' to the chorus of the swamp animals, lettin' their songs fill the quiet spaces between me and Papa.

This—this was the part of the day I loved most.

The air shifted—just a little at first. The breeze carried a coolness it didn't have before, and I noticed the sky had darkened, gray clouds creepin' in where the pink and purple had been.

A soft plop hit the porch railing.

Then another.

Within seconds, the gentle patter of rain filled the air, tap-tap-tappin' against the roof, splashin' onto the dirt yard below. The smell of wet earth rose up, mixin' with the faint scent of pine and swamp water. It was the kind of rain that made you wanna stay put and just listen.

I tucked my legs up under me on the step, watchin' the raindrops dance across the ground.

Papa leaned back in his rocker, his eyes half-closed, a content smile on his face.

"There it is," he murmured, his voice low and easy. "A good summer rain."

I liked the sound of that—summer rain. It felt softer than the heavy storms we sometimes got. This was the kind you could sit with.

A few minutes later, Mama pushed open the screen door, holdin' a towel in her hand, like she'd thought maybe we were gettin' drenched. But when she saw we were just sittin' and enjoyin' it, she paused.

"You two just gonna sit out here in the rain?" she asked, though there was a gentle laugh in her voice.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, grinnin'.

She stood there for a second, then sighed like she was givin' in. "Well... guess I'll join you."

She sat down beside me on the step, tuckin' the towel into her lap, just in case. I leaned into her a little, feelin' the warmth of her arm next to mine.

We didn't say much. We didn't need to.

We just watched the rain fall—tiny rivers form in the dirt, drops dancin' on the leaves, the trees swayin' ever so slightly in the gentle wind. The sounds of the swamp blended right into it—frogs still croakin', insects hummin', nature not mindin' the rain one bit.

We sat there a while, just listenin' to the rain, breathin' in that good, clean smell it left behind. The kind that made everything feel a little fresher, like the earth was takin' a big drink after a long, hot day.

Then, just when I thought it couldn't get any better, Mama had to ruin it.

"Emily," she said, her voice gentle but with that Mama tone that let you know somethin' was comin'. "You got any homework today?"

I groaned, slouchin' down like the rain had suddenly turned to mud and swallowed me whole.

"Mama," I whined, "why'd you have to bring that up? We were havin' such a nice time!"

Papa chuckled from his rocker, rockin' slow. "She got you there, Beverly."

Mama gave him a playful side-eye but stayed focused on me. "That's all well and good, but you ain't gonna be fallin' behind on your first day."

I huffed, crossin' my arms. "I got a math sheet—zeros multiplication. I already know it, though. It's easy."

"Easy or not, it still needs doin'," she said, nudgin' me with her elbow.

I sighed, knowin' she was right, even if I didn't like hearin' it.

Papa grinned, his eyes twinklin' like he remembered this feelin' all too well. "Get it done now, kiddo. Then you can enjoy the rest of the evenin' without it hangin' over your head."

I grumbled under my breath but pushed myself up off the step. The rain was still fallin', light and steady, but the cozy feel of sittin' there was replaced by the dread of math problems.

"I'll be quick," I muttered.

Mama patted my back as I stood up. "That's my girl."

I went inside, grabbin' my backpack and diggin' out the crinkled worksheet. I sat at the kitchen table, pencil in hand, workin' through each problem. And yeah... I was right. It was easy.

Zero times anything was always zero.

But still—I'd rather be listenin' to rain with Mama and Papa on the porch.

I scratched the last answer onto my worksheet, lettin' out a long breath like I'd just run ten miles. Even though the math was easy, I was glad to have it done. I stuffed the paper back into my folder and tossed it into my backpack, pushin' it to the side like I didn't wanna think about it again until tomorrow.

The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, barely more than a mist, and I could still hear Mama and Papa talkin' low out on the porch. I stepped outside, the air smellin' fresh and cool after the rain. The ground was damp, little puddles fillin' the dips in the dirt, and the leaves on the trees dripped softly onto the ground.

I plopped down right back on the step where I'd been before.

"All done," I said proudly.

Papa gave a little nod. "Told you you'd feel better gettin' it out of the way."

"I guess," I said, grinnin'.

A few minutes later, Mama pushed open the screen door, carryin' a tray with three glasses of lemonade and somethin' covered with a dish towel. She set it down on the little table beside Papa's chair.

I noticed the lemonade right away—it wasn't just the usual kind. It was the special one. Pale yellow, with little green specks floatin' in it.

Tarragon Lemonade.

Mama's favorite, and truth be told, I liked it a lot too. It was sweet, but that tarragon gave it somethin' extra—kinda like a little whisper of somethin' fancy. Not somethin' we had all the time, so I knew tonight was special.

She handed me a glass, beads of condensation already slippin' down the sides. I took a sip—the cool lemon tang mixed with that light, herby taste. It was perfect after the warm day.

Then, Mama pulled the towel off the dish, revealin' a pan of peach cobbler, still warm. The sweet smell hit me right away—peaches, sugar, and that golden crust that always made my mouth water.

I looked up at her, wide-eyed. "Cobbler, Mama? On a school night?"

She laughed. "I figured we deserved a little treat. First day of school and all."

Papa rubbed his hands together. "Now you're talkin'."

We each grabbed a bowl, and Mama spooned out the cobbler, steamin' hot, the syrupy peaches bubblin' under the crust. I didn't even care that it burned my tongue a little—I was too busy tastin' all that sweet, gooey goodness.

We sat there together—Mama, Papa, and me—sippin' our lemonade, eatin' cobbler, listenin' to the rain as it finally drifted away, leavin' the sounds of the swamp behind.

The frogs had started back up, singin' louder than ever, and a few lightning bugs blinked out near the trees.

I leaned back, feelin' full and happy.

This was home.

And there was nowhere else I'd rather be.

After helpin' Mama bring in the dishes and huggin' Papa goodnight, I made my way to my room. The window was cracked just a little, lettin' in the cool night air and the sounds of the swamp driftin' through. The frogs were already singin', their deep croaks mixin' with the occasional chirp of crickets. It was like a song—one I'd heard every night for as long as I could remember.

I changed into my nightshirt and knelt down beside my bed, like I always did.

I folded my hands together and closed my eyes. "Dear Lord, thank You for today. Thank You for Mama and Papa. Thank You for school and for my friends. And thank You for givin' us this home. Please watch over us while we sleep. Amen."

When I finished, I climbed into bed, pullin' the covers up tight under my chin. My little wooden fox sat on the nightstand, watchin' over me, its smooth tail catchin' the soft glow from the moonlight slippin' in through the window.

I laid still, listenin'—just listenin'.

The frogs kept on croakin', slow and steady, like they were singin' me to sleep. Their sounds mixed with the gentle rustlin' of leaves and the occasional plop of somethin' in the water out near the swamp.

It was a sound I knew better than any song.

And before I knew it, my eyes got heavy, and I drifted off—wrapped up in the music of home.

---

The rain started sometime in the night—soft at first, just a tap-tap-tap on the tin roof—but by mornin', it was pourin'.
I woke up to the gray sky peekin' through my window, and the sound of frogs singin' even louder than usual from the swamp.

Mama was already up, fixin' breakfast, and the house smelled like bacon and eggs.
But I could hear the steady patter of rain on the porch, and I knew what that meant—no recess outside.

It was Friday, too.
I should've been excited for the weekend, but part of me still wanted one more soccer match—a real rematch—to get back at Jacob and his braggin'.
But with the rain comin' down like this, there'd be none of that.

School always felt different when it rained, especially on a Friday.
The halls seemed quieter, and the classrooms smelled like damp coats and wet shoes.
Jacob and the boys would still be gloatin', but now they wouldn't get to prove anything on the playground—and neither would we.

Jacob was already grumblin' before the bell even rang.
He came stompin' into class, drippin' rain onto the floor, his hair stickin' up in all directions like he'd been wrestlin' with the wind.

"This rain's the worst," he muttered to anyone who'd listen, throwin' his backpack down by his desk.
"We were gonna win today, too. I know it."

I rolled my eyes, shufflin' my books into place with my wrapped-up wrist still feelin' stiff.
"You ain't winnin' nothin', Jacob. We're still up two to one."

That shut him up real quick.
He opened his mouth like he was fixin' to argue but closed it again. He knew I was right.

Before he could come up with somethin' else to say, the loudspeaker crackled to life above us.

"Attention, students," Principal Taylor's voice filled the room, all serious and official-like.
"Due to an injury during recess yesterday, there will be no more rivalry games allowed during recess for the foreseeable future. That means no boys versus girls soccer matches or any other competitive games."

The class let out a mix of groans and murmurs, with a few whispered "What?" and "That's not fair!"

Jacob's face turned redder than a tomato.
"No way!" he whispered, his fists balled up on his desk. "That ain't right!"

But Abby leaned over toward me, smirkin'.
"Well... guess that means we win."

I grinned right back.

Jacob heard us, I knew he did.
He didn't say nothin' though.
He just sat there, stewin' in his seat, his arms crossed, gloatin' time over.

Once everyone settled down after the loudspeaker announcement, Mr. Johnson stepped to the front of the room, clappin' his hands together lightly to get our attention.

"Alright, class. Let's get back to our multiplication tables," he said, his voice calm and clear like always.
"I know we started with the zero facts yesterday... and some of us," his eyes shifted over to Jacob, "still need a little more practice."

I let out the smallest sigh, careful not to be loud about it.
Abby glanced at me and did the same.
We both knew the zeros—we'd known them since the first time he explained it.

Zero times anything is zero.
That was easy as pie.
Didn't matter if it was zero times two or zero times a million. It was still nothin'.

Mr. Johnson started writin' on the board again, goin' over the same problems as yesterday.

0 x 1 = __
0 x 2 = __
0 x 3 = __

I slumped down in my seat a little, twirlin' my pencil between my fingers.
I liked math most days—when it was movin' forward—but this was startin' to feel like we were just sittin' in place, spinnin' our wheels.

Abby leaned over real quiet-like and whispered, "I could do this with my eyes closed."

I nodded. "Me too. I wanna get to the ones or twos."

Mr. Johnson must've noticed the whisperin' 'cause he glanced our way, but he didn't say nothin'.
Instead, he turned back to the class and said, "Now, remember—multiplication is not the same as adding. We talked about this yesterday. Who can tell me... what is zero times four?"

Jacob shot his hand up like he was gonna redeem himself.

"Four," he said proudly.

A few kids snickered, and I couldn't help but smile a little too.

Mr. Johnson didn't laugh, though.
He just nodded like he expected it.

"Now, Jacob... let's think about it. If you have zero groups of four... how many do you have?"

Jacob's face scrunched up like he was tryin' to do the math in his head.
After a long pause, he muttered, "Zero?"

"Exactly," Mr. Johnson said, his face lightenin' up a little like Jacob had won a prize.
"It's not adding—it's groups. And if you don't have any groups, you don't have anything."

Jacob nodded slowly, like it was startin' to sink in.

But I was still sittin' there, tappin' my pencil, wishin' we'd move on to the real stuff.

The ones. The twos. Somethin' new.

After math finally wrapped up, I was more than ready to move on to somethin' else.
Mr. Johnson clapped his hands lightly again, gettin' our attention.

"Alright, class. Time for Reading. Grab your books—the ones you picked out yesterday."

I grinned, feelin' that little spark of excitement bubble up.
I reached into my desk and pulled out Matilda, the bright yellow cover feelin' smooth under my fingertips.

Mr. Johnson stood at the front of the room, his voice calm and clear like always.
"Today, I want you to read the first chapter. When you finish it—read it again.
Take your time. Pay attention to every word. See what you notice the second time that you might've missed the first."

A few kids let out small groans, and I heard Jacob mutter somethin' about "readin' the same thing twice," but I didn't care.
I was already flippin' open to page one, feelin' that little thrill that always came when startin' a new story.

I knew nothin' about Matilda, but that just made it better.
I liked the idea that every page was a surprise waitin' for me.

The room got quiet, except for the soft rustlin' of pages turnin' and the occasional cough.
I sank into my chair, lettin' the words pull me in.

I flipped to the first page of Matilda and started readin'.
Right away, it talked about how most parents think their kids are the best thing ever—like their little angels can do no wrong.
I smiled a little at that, thinkin' 'bout Mama and Papa always tellin' me they're proud. Even when I got into mischief, Papa would just shake his head, smilin', like it was all part of bein' a kid.

But then the book said some parents don't care much at all.
That made my heart sink a little.
Matilda's parents were like that.
They didn't see how special she was—they just ignored her.

Matilda was smart, though.
Like, real smart—teaching herself to read by age three.
That part made me blink.
Three?!
I was still figurin' out letters at three, and here she was readin' books all by herself.

But her parents didn't care.
Her daddy told her to watch TV instead.

That part made me kinda mad.
I couldn't imagine Papa ever sayin' somethin' like that.
He liked readin' the paper every mornin'—and he always said learnin' stuff was important.
Mama too—she'd let me sit beside her and read recipes, even if I stumbled over words sometimes.

So Matilda snuck off to the library—all by herself.
That part made me kinda nervous just readin' it.
I didn't think Mama would ever let me go somewhere alone, especially at her age.
But Matilda was brave, and the lady at the library—Mrs. Phelps—didn't stop her.
Instead, she gave her a book called Great Expectations—a big fancy one that grown-ups read.

I'd never read that, but it sounded important.
Matilda read it like it was nothin', and when she finished, she read even more books—all those old, famous ones.

That part made me kinda jealous—all those books, all that time just to read and drink hot chocolate?
That sounded perfect.

I glanced up for a second, lookin' around the room.
Most kids were still readin', but Abby caught my eye and gave a little smile, holdin' up her book—it was James and the Giant Peach.
I smiled back, then went back to Matilda.

Readin' about her made me feel lucky—I had Mama and Papa who cared about me.
But it also made me wanna be smart like her.
Maybe not readin' grown-up books at three, but still—learnin' things, figurin' stuff out.
Bein' someone who could do anything.

So when I finished that first chapter, I did what Mr. Johnson said—I read it again.
And the second time, it all felt even clearer—like I was gettin' to know Matilda better, like she was a friend.

When Mr. Johnson finally told us to close our books, I felt a little disappointed—I was gettin' into Matilda's world, and I kinda wanted to see what happened next.
But before I could dwell on it too long, the recess bell rang.

Usually, that sound meant runnin' outside, soccer games, and chasin' each other around the playground.
But today? Not with the rain pourin' down like it was tryin' to flood the whole town.

Instead, we were stuck inside—indoor recess.
It didn't happen often, but when it did, Mr. Johnson always dragged out the same old stack of games from the shelf in the back.
Checkers, Connect Four, a puzzle with missin' pieces—and Snakes and Ladders.

That one was my favorite, even if it could drive you crazy.
One second you're climbin' up a ladder, thinkin' you're about to win—and the next, you're slidin' down a snake's back all the way to the bottom.

Me and Abby grabbed the Snakes and Ladders board right away before anyone else could get it.
Jacob saw us and wandered over, arms crossed, still salty about the soccer thing.

"You sure you can handle this game, Jacob?" I teased.
"Lots of slippin' and slidin'. Might hurt your pride."

He narrowed his eyes, but I saw the smile peekin' out.
"Bring it on."

We sat cross-legged on the floor, settin' up the board.
The dice clattered against the tile, and we all leaned in close like it was the biggest game in the world.

Jacob landed on a snake right away, slidin' halfway down the board.

Abby burst out laughin', and I joined in.
Jacob just threw his hands up. "This game's rigged."

"Or maybe you just ain't lucky," I grinned.

We kept playin', laughin' every time someone slid down, cheerin' when we caught a ladder.
It was the kind of fun that made you forget the rain outside—or that you were supposed to be rivals on the soccer field.

By the time Mr. Johnson called time, Abby won (though Jacob said it was luck), and I was laughin' so hard my sides hurt.

As we packed up the game, Jacob gave me a little nod, like he knew the score was settled... for now.

When Mr. Johnson dismissed us for lunch, my stomach was already rumblin'.
Indoor recess had been fun, but laughin' over Snakes and Ladders sure worked up an appetite.

As I grabbed my coat, I remembered—Mama didn't pack me a lunch today.
She said it'd get soggy in the rain, so I was buyin' lunch from the cafeteria instead.

That didn't bother me none—'cause Friday meant pizza day.

And not just any pizza—the rectangle one.
Cheese all bubbly, edges a little crisp, sittin' on that flimsy paper tray.
It was the best lunch the school ever made, or at least that's what all us kids thought.

I stood in line with Abby, the smell of pizza and warm bread hittin' me as we shuffled forward.

When I got my tray, everything was laid out just right:

Rectangle pizza—cheese-only, 'cause that's all they ever had.

Scoop of corn—kinda soggy, but I liked mixin' it with the pizza sometimes.

Peaches in syrup—sweet and cold, always slidin' around the tray.

Chocolate chip cookie—a little too hard on the edges, but good for dunkin' in milk.

Chocolate milk and orange juice—because I liked both, and nobody said I had to pick just one.

Abby grabbed her tray right behind me, and we found our usual spot near the middle of the room.
Jacob was already at his table with the other boys, still talkin' about the game earlier, braggin' like he'd won the World Cup.

I just rolled my eyes and focused on my pizza—dippin' the corner into the corn like I always did, even though Abby said it was gross.

"You're weird," she laughed, takin' a bite of her cookie first.

"Yeah, but it's good," I grinned, wipin' a little cheese off my chin.

"So, what you doin' this weekend?" Abby asked, swipin' a piece of corn to pop in her mouth.

I shrugged. "Dunno. Probably helpin' Papa with somethin'. Might go down by the creek again, see if I can catch that frog I missed."

She grinned. "You and those frogs."

"You love 'em too."

"Maybe," she said, grinnin' wider.

I was about to say somethin' back when—

CRACK-BOOM!

A flash of light lit up the windows, and not even two seconds later, the loudest clap of thunder exploded right over the school.
It shook the walls, made the trays rattle, and sent a jolt straight through my chest.

I screamed— as well as all the girls in the room and even some of the boys let out a scream.
Abby clutched her milk carton, eyes wide.
Jacob's table tried to act tough, but I saw a few of 'em flinchin' too.

After a moment, the noise died down, and the lunchroom settled back into nervous chatter.

"Dang," Abby breathed, laughin' a little, but you could tell she was still shook up.
"That was close."

"Real close," I said, peekin' out the window, but all I could see was gray rain and trees bendin' in the wind.

Mama always said when thunder came right after the lightnin', it meant the storm was right on top of you.

"That hit somewhere near the playground, I bet," I said, pointin' toward the window.

"I wasn't scared!" Jacob called over from his table, "Y'all act like you never heard thunder before!"

But he wasn't foolin' anybody.
We all saw his eyes go big when it hit, and the flush on his face told the real story.

"Don't act tough, Jacob. You screamed louder than me," I shot back, tryin' to sound brave now that the moment passed.

Some kids laughed, and Jacob just shook his head, but I saw his grin peekin' through.
It was **like that thunder reset everythin'—the boys versus girls stuff, the braggin' about soccer—it didn't matter for a second.
We were all just kids caught in a storm.

Before we even caught our breath from that thunder, the lights flickered—once, twice—then everything went dark.

The whole cafeteria fell into this weird kind of hush—nobody screamed, but you could feel everyone holdin' their breath.

For a second, it was just the sound of rain beatin' against the windows, and the low murmur of voices startin' to bubble up.

"What happened?" Abby whispered, leanin' in close.

"Power's out," I said, even though it was pretty obvious.

Jacob's voice came from a few tables over.
"It'll come back in a minute. Always does."

But it didn't.
The chatter got louder, but Mr. Johnson came into the cafeteria, his voice steady and calm like always.

"Alright, everyone—stay put. Just keep eatin'. The power will be back on soon."

I nodded to myself, like he was talkin' just to me.
If Mr. Johnson wasn't worried, then I wasn't gonna be worried either.

I took another bite of my pizza, even though it had cooled off a bit now.
Didn't matter—still good.
I scooped up the last of my corn and finished my peaches, sippin' my chocolate milk while the room buzzed quietly with everyone wonderin' how long we'd be stuck like this.

Abby was still pickin' at her cookie.
"This ever happen before?" she asked, her voice low.

"Once or twice," I said, thinkin' back.
"But it always came back quick... Usually."

We sat there a little longer, but the lights stayed off, and the hum of the coolers and drink machines stayed quiet.

That's when the teachers started talkin' to each other in that serious, grown-up way—tryin' to sound calm, but you could tell they were figurin' stuff out.

Whispers started spreadin' through the room.
Some kids said we might get sent home, and that idea made my chest flutter with a little excitement.

Finally, Mr. Johnson clapped his hands to get everyone's attention.

"Alright, students. We're going to be dismissing early. The power's not coming back on anytime soon. The buses will start lining up soon, so stay seated until your class is called."

A ripple of excitement ran through the cafeteria—even though it was still rainin', gettin' out early was like winnin' a prize.

I grinned at Abby, and she grinned back.

"Guess we get a long weekend," she said.

I leaned back in my seat, wipin' my hands on my napkin, feelin' full and kinda happy.
Sometimes, a little storm wasn't so bad after all.

The next morning, school started off like any other. Mr. Johnson stood at the door, greeting each of us with his usual "Good morning, class," his voice steady and clear, not a single dropped "g" in sight. He was the kind of teacher who liked things done properly. It used to catch me off guard at first—being told to mind my manners when I mumbled a quick 'mornin' without thinking—but I learned quick. This time, I made sure to look him in the eye and say it just right. "Good morning, Mr. Johnson," I said, proud of myself for remembering.

He gave me a small nod of approval, and I felt like I'd already won something, even though the day had just begun.

We started with math, going over our times tables. I liked numbers well enough when they behaved, but sometimes they didn't, and that could get frustrating. Reading was next. We took turns reading out loud from a story about a little dog that got lost but found his way home. I liked that story; it made me think about what it would feel like to get lost out in the woods, and how I'd find my way back home to Mama and Papa.

But then came recess. That was when Jacob, a boy in our class who was always full of energy and a little too confident for his own good, called out a challenge.

"Boys versus girls! Soccer! You ready, or are y'all scared?" he hollered, his voice carrying across the playground.

Abby and I shared a look. We weren't scared. Not one bit. We'd beaten them last time, and we planned to do it again.

"You're on," Abby called back, hands on her hips.

We divided up, girls on one side, boys on the other. The playground was mostly dirt, with patches of grass trying their best to grow, but it made for a good soccer field in our eyes. We didn't have proper goals—just two sticks on each end to mark the spot—but that was enough. The rules were simple: first to five wins. No goalies, no referees, and no whining. We played hard and fast, and everyone knew to watch their shins; getting kicked was part of the deal.

The game started with Jacob tapping the ball forward for the boys, his quick feet kicking up little clouds of dust. Abby was on him like a shadow, her eyes locked on the ball. She darted in and poked it loose with her toe, sending it my way. I trapped it under my foot, feeling the worn rubber of the ball press into the dirt. The boys closed in, but I twisted, pushing the ball to the side, and dashed past them. My heart pounded as I spotted Abby sprinting up the sideline.

I passed it ahead, the ball rolling over a dry patch of grass. Abby met it with a perfect touch, keeping it close as she weaved between two boys. Jacob tried to block her, arms out for balance, but she faked right and went left, leaving him spinning in place. We both laughed as she surged forward.

"I'm open!" I called, raising my hand.

Abby glanced up and flicked the ball back toward me with the side of her foot. I caught it and dribbled closer to the sticks marking the goal. Just as I prepared to shoot, Brian lunged in front of me. I kicked the ball hard, but it smacked his leg and bounced away.

Scrambling, Jacob got to it first, turning and racing toward our end of the field. Abby and I sprinted after him, our breaths coming in short bursts. He lined up a shot, but I slid in, my leg sweeping through the dust, and knocked the ball away just in time.

Abby was already moving. I scrambled to my feet and booted the ball downfield. She caught up to it with those quick strides of hers. The boys were closing in, but Abby didn't hesitate. She took a sharp kick, and the ball zipped between the two sticks.

"Goal!" she shouted, pumping her fist in the air.

We cheered, jumping up and down, our laughter mixing with the calls and groans from the boys. "Lucky shot!" Jacob yelled, but we knew better.

The game pressed on. Sweat trickled down our faces, and our shoes were covered in dust. Each team fought hard. The boys tied it up with a strong kick from Brian that skimmed right past our goal line. We answered quickly, Abby slipping through their defenses like a rabbit, scoring another one with a clever tap past Jacob's foot.

By the time it was four to four, everyone was breathless, but no one was giving up. This was how it always was—a battle of pride, speed, and grit. Jacob tried another breakaway, but this time, Abby cut him off. She stole the ball with a swift kick and charged ahead. I sprinted alongside her.

"Go for it!" I urged.

She angled toward the goal, her eyes narrowing in focus. Jacob lunged at her, but she side-stepped and struck the ball with her right foot. It sailed cleanly between the sticks.

"Five!" I yelled, arms raised in triumph.

We collapsed onto the grass, sweaty and out of breath, grinning up at the sky. The boys grumbled, but there were smiles mixed in with their frustration. We knew we'd play again tomorrow, and the rivalry would continue. That was the best part—the game never really ended. It was always waiting, right there on the dusty playground, ready for us to pick up where we left off.

"Told you we'd win," she said.

"Yup," I laughed. "They never learn."

When the bell rang, we brushed the dust off our knees and joined the crowd heading toward the cafeteria, still breathless from the game. Jacob shot me a look, half a scowl, half a grin. He was already plotting their comeback tomorrow—I could see it in his eyes. I just smirked back. Let him try.

Inside the cafeteria, the noise hit us all at once—chatter, laughter, trays clattering, and the hum of kids moving through the line. The air smelled like something fried, mixed with that warm bread smell that always made my stomach growl. We lined up, sliding our trays along the counter.

Today's lunch was chicken nuggets, mashed potatoes with gravy, green beans, and a soft roll. Not bad. I grabbed a chocolate milk from the cooler at the end, and Abby did the same.

Most of the seats were taken, by the time we got into the lunchroom. We glanced around, looking for a spot. Some kids were already settled in little groups—friends who sat together every day. I didn't mind sitting different places; it made things interesting.

"Over there?" Abby nodded toward an open spot near the middle of the room.

"Looks good," I said.

We slid into our seats across from a couple of girls from another class, who were busy whispering about something that had happened on the bus that morning. I didn't catch the whole story, but it sounded like someone's little brother threw up. Gross.

I focused on my nuggets, dunking one into my mashed potatoes. That was the best way to eat them—the gravy made everything better. Abby did the same. We grinned at each other like we had some kind of secret.

Jacob and his crew ended up at a table a few rows over. I could hear him carrying on, talking big like always. "We let 'em win today," he was saying loud enough for everyone to hear. "Tomorrow's gonna be different."

I snorted, shaking my head. "He's so full of it."

Abby laughed. "Yeah, but it's kinda fun watching him lose."

We ate and talked, our conversation hopping from the game to school, then to the fall festival that was coming up soon. There'd be hayrides, games, and Papa said there was gonna be a big pumpkin contest this year.

"You think your papa'll enter?" Abby asked.

"Maybe," I said, feeling a little proud. "He's real good with his tools. He could probably carve the best one there."

Lunch went by quick, like it always did. After we finished, we carried our trays over to the window where you dumped the leftovers and stacked everything up.

Once we got back to class, Mr. Johnson stood up in front and clapped his hands together. "Alright, everyone, listen up. We're starting something new today. You're going to be working on a research project. It's about the wildlife right here in Georgia."

The room got quieter. Projects meant work, but they also usually meant partnerin' up—and that was the fun part.

"We live in a special place," Mr. Johnson went on. "Georgia is home to some of the most interesting animals in the South. From the swamps to the forests, from the rivers to the fields—you'll find creatures big and small. Your job is to pick one animal that lives in Georgia, and you and a partner are going to learn all about it. Where it lives, what it eats, how it survives. You'll make a poster and tell the class what you've found."

I felt a nudge from my side. Abby was already smilin', her eyes wide with excitement. We didn't even have to say it. We were partners.

Mr. Johnson clapped his hands once more. "Find your partner and start discussing your ideas."

Me and Abby scooted our desks together so quick, our chairs made that squeaky sound on the tile floor.

"What are we pickin'?" Abby asked, already lookin' around like she had a few ideas.

I didn't even need to think. It came to me right away. I leaned in and whispered, "Gators."

Her eyes got big. "Alligators?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "Papa told me all about 'em. I've seen a couple near the swamp before... from far away. And remember that one he shot the other week? We had it for dinner."

She wrinkled her nose. "I remember. I still don't know how y'all eat those things."

I laughed. "It was good!"

She giggled, then leaned back. "Okay, gators it is. That's way cooler than pickin' a bird or somethin'."

We started writin' down ideas on a piece of notebook paper—stuff like "where they live (swamps)," "what they eat," and "how big they get." I already knew a little, thanks to Papa, but Abby suggested we check out a book from the library tomorrow, just to make sure we got all the facts right.

Mr. Johnson walked around, peekin' over desks.

"What animal did you two choose?" he asked, smilin' down at us.

"Alligators," I said proudly.

He raised an eyebrow. "That's a fine choice. They're fascinating creatures. Just make sure you do your research. And remember—when you present to the class, we want to speak clearly. No 'goin',' no 'eatin'.' We say going and eating."

I sighed, but Abby elbowed me, tryin' not to laugh.

"Yes, sir," I said.

The afternoon sun streamed in through the classroom windows, makin' little square patches of light on the floor. Our pencils scratched against our papers as we brainstormed more ideas for our poster. I wanted to draw a big gator with its mouth wide open, showin' all its teeth. Abby liked the idea of addin' little facts around it—like how fast they could swim, or how they sneak up on their food.

"Did you know they can grow to be like fourteen feet long?" I whispered, my voice full of the kind of awe only a kid could have.

"No way!" Abby said, eyes wide.

"Yeah, Papa said some folks down near the swamp seen ones even bigger."

She shook her head, smilin'. "I don't think I wanna see one that close."

We both laughed, but in the back of my mind, I thought about the time Papa took me fishin' and we saw one glide through the water, just its eyes peekin' out above the surface. It had made my heart race, but it was the kind of fear that made you feel alive.

By the time the bell rang, I felt excited. This wasn't just homework—it was somethin' I cared about. Somethin' that reminded me of home.

And I knew Papa would be proud.

As we grabbed our backpacks and walked toward the door, Abby grinned. "Tomorrow, we hit the library. We're gonna make the best gator poster ever."

"Yep," I said, feelin' that same excitement buzzin' in my chest. "We sure will."

The school bus bumped down the dusty road, and I felt my eyelids gettin' heavy as the trees blurred past the window. It was that kinda tired that comes from runnin' hard at recess, thinkin' real hard in class, and eatin' just a little too much at lunch.

When the bus finally stopped near our driveway, I hopped off, wavin' to Abby as the doors hissed shut behind me. The air was warm, heavy with that familiar swampy smell, but I didn't mind it. It smelled like home.

I could already hear the soft cluckin' of the chickens and the low hum of cicadas as I made my way up toward the house. Mama's truck was parked by the porch, and I saw her hangin' clothes on the line, her back turned as the breeze tugged at the damp shirts.

"Hey, Mama!" I called.

She turned and smiled, wipin' her hands on her apron. "Hey there, baby. How was school?"

"It was good! We got a big project about wildlife. Me and Abby picked alligators!" I said, my chest puffin' a little with pride.

"Alligators, huh? Figures," she said with a laugh. "Now, you know the drill—put your bag inside and come help me finish up out here. These clothes ain't gonna hang themselves."

"Yes, ma'am."

I dropped my backpack and shoes by the door and came back out, bare feet pressin' into the warm dirt. I grabbed a damp towel from the basket and stretched up to pin it to the line, lettin' it flap in the breeze.

Once we finished, Mama handed me a small bucket of chicken feed.

"Go on and feed them hens," she said. "And don't let Ruby bully you. She's been actin' extra feisty today."

I laughed. Ruby was always a little bossy, struttin' around like she was the queen of the coop. I scattered the feed across the ground, and the hens came rushin' over, cluckin' and peckin' like they hadn't eaten in days. Ruby puffed up and gave me a side-eye, but I was ready for her.

"Don't start with me," I warned, pointin' a finger. "You got plenty right there."

She clucked but backed off, diggin' into the grain with the others.

After the chickens were fed, Mama called me over to the garden. The weeds were already creepin' up between the rows of tomatoes and squash.

"Start pullin' those weeds, Em," she said, kneelin' down beside me.

I squatted down, fingers diggin' into the warm dirt. It wasn't my favorite chore, but I liked workin' alongside Mama. We didn't always talk much when we gardened, but sometimes she'd tell me stories about when she was a little girl—about how she and Uncle Ray used to pick blackberries down by the creek and come home with purple-stained fingers.

"Papa comin' home on time today?" I asked after a while, wipin' the sweat off my forehead.

"I reckon so," Mama said, checkin' the tomatoes. "He was workin' on that cabinet for Mrs. Jenkins. Should be done today."

I smiled. I liked when Papa got home early. It meant we'd have more time to sit on the porch, maybe listen to the frogs, or he'd show me how to carve somethin' new.

By the time we finished the garden, my knees were stained with dirt, and my fingers had little specks of soil stuck under the nails. I wiped my hands on my overalls, standin' up and stretchin'.

"That's good work, baby," Mama said, standin' too. "Let's get washed up and start on supper. Your papa'll be hungry."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, feelin' that good kind of tired—the kind that comes from a day full of doin' things that mattered.

As we walked back toward the house, I glanced out toward the trees beyond our yard. I knew there were gators out there, hidin' somewhere in the swampy water. And soon, I'd know even more about 'em, thanks to our project.

But for now, I was just happy to be home.

The kitchen smelled wonderful—like tomatoes, onions, and spices all blended together into somethin' warm and good. Mama and I had been workin' on stuffed tomatoes for supper—Georgian-style, as Mama called 'em. It was one of those recipes that made you feel like you were cookin' somethin' fancy, but really, it was just good ol' Southern comfort food.

We had sliced the tops off the tomatoes, scooped out the insides, and mixed 'em with rice, ground beef, onions, and herbs. Mama even let me sprinkle a little cheese on top before we slid the pan into the oven.

"There," she said, wipin' her hands on her apron. "That'll be ready in a bit."

Just as she said it, we heard the familiar sound of Papa's truck rollin' up the drive. The tires crunched over the dirt, and the engine hummed low before cuttin' off.

I perked up right away. "Papa's home!"

I darted to the door, throwin' it open and rushin' onto the porch before he'd even stepped out of the truck.

"Papa! We're makin' stuffed tomatoes!" I called, bouncin' on my toes.

He climbed out, stretchin' his back with a little groan. "Well now, that sounds mighty fine after the day I've had."

He shut the truck door and grabbed his toolbox, walkin' up toward the house. His shirt was dusty, and there was a little sawdust stickin' to his pants, but he had that same easy smile on his face—the one he always had when he was glad to be home.

"How was work?" I asked, followin' him like a shadow as he stepped up onto the porch.

"Busy," he said, settin' his toolbox down by the door. "Finished up that cabinet for Mrs. Jenkins. She seemed real happy with it."

Mama stepped out onto the porch, wipin' her hands on a dishtowel. "Well, you're just in time. Supper's nearly ready."

Papa leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "My favorite kind of news."

We all went inside, and I peeked into the oven, seein' the tomatoes sizzlin', the cheese meltin' on top just right. My stomach grumbled loud enough for Papa to hear.

He chuckled. "Sounds like someone's ready to eat."

"Yes, sir!" I grinned.

While Mama finished settin' the table, Papa washed up, and I helped get the drinks ready—sweet tea for them, and lemonade for me.

When the tomatoes came out, they were hot and bubbly, the tops crisped just a little. Mama scooped one onto each plate, and we all sat down together.

Before we picked up our forks, Papa bowed his head, and we joined hands.

"Lord, we thank You for this food, for the work that made it, and for this home You've given us. Bless this family and keep us safe. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I echoed.

I cut into my tomato, the filling steamin' as I took a bite. It was rich and savory, the kind of food that made you slow down and enjoy every bit.

"Mmm... Mama, this is real good," I said through a mouthful.

Papa nodded, takin' a big bite. "Best thing I've tasted all day."

We ate, talkin' about our day—Papa's work, Mama's garden, and my project about gators.

"I'll have to tell you some more gator stories when you're workin' on that poster," Papa said, winkin' at me.

I grinned, knowin' this project was gonna be even more fun than I thought.

After supper, Mama shooed me and Papa out of the kitchen while she cleaned up. I didn't mind—I knew what was comin'.

Papa grabbed his old whittlin' knife and a fresh block of wood, and I followed him out onto the porch like his little shadow. The sky was turnin' purple with the last bit of daylight, and the air was thick with that good Georgia summer smell—wet dirt, pine trees, and a hint of somethin' sweet ridin' the breeze.

We settled into our usual spots—Papa in his rocker, me cross-legged on the porch floor at his feet. The boards were still a little warm from the sun, and the sound of the swamp was startin' up—the croaks of frogs, the chirp of crickets, and the occasional call of a bird somewhere deep in the trees.

"You ready to learn somethin' new tonight?" Papa asked, flippin' open his knife with a soft click.

"Yes, sir," I said, my eyes already fixed on the wood in his hands.

He turned the block over a couple times, studyin' it like he could already see what was inside.

"We're gonna carve you a gator," he said with a grin.

My heart jumped a little. "Really? Like... with teeth and a tail and everything?"

He nodded, his fingers runnin' along the wood. "A proper gator. You can take it to school when you give that presentation—show 'em you know more than just what's in a book."

I sat up straighter. This was serious. I knew Papa's whittlin' was somethin' special. He didn't just make little toys—he made pieces that felt like they belonged in our home. His hands knew what they were doin', and now he was gonna teach me.

He handed me a smaller piece of wood, somethin' easier to work with, and showed me how to hold it steady in one hand while keepin' the knife in the other. His voice was low, patient, like he had all the time in the world.

"You don't rush," he said, easin' the knife along the edge. "Whittlin's about seein' what's inside and lettin' it come out. You start with the shape—you don't worry 'bout the little details yet. That comes later."

I watched as his knife peeled thin curls of wood away, revealin' the rough outline of a long body—a gator's body. The snout stretched out, and the tail curved just a little at the end.

I tried to follow along, my hands not quite as sure as his. My gator was lookin' more like a lumpy stick, but Papa didn't say nothin' bad. He just smiled and guided my hand.

"See, right here—you wanna round that belly out a little more. Gators ain't straight like a log. They curve, like they're always ready to move."

I nodded, tongue stickin' out a little as I worked.

The sun slipped lower, and the porch got dim, but we kept on. Papa's gator was takin' shape fast—rough scales along its back, little legs tucked close to its body, and a mouth that looked like it could snap shut at any second.

Mine... well, it still needed some work. But Papa didn't mind. Every so often, he'd reach over and shave a little here, smooth a spot there, showin' me how to see what I was missin'.

"Details come last," he reminded me. "Once you got the shape, that's when you do the eyes, the teeth... the things that make it come to life."

By the time Mama stepped out onto the porch, wipin' her hands on her towel, the stars were startin' to peek through the trees.

"You two still at it?" she asked, smilin'.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, holdin' up my little wooden gator. It was a bit rough, kinda crooked, but I was proud of it.

Papa held up his gator beside mine—his was perfect, with each tooth and scale carved jus

t right. But he looked at mine like it was somethin' special, too.

"Not bad for a first try," he said, winkin' at me.

I beamed.

We sat there a little longer, listenin' to the swamp, holdin' our gators like they were treasures.

Because they were.

As I worked my knife along the little block of wood, tryin' to shape my gator's tail, I started talkin' without even thinkin'.

"Today at recess, we played soccer—boys against girls. We crushed 'em," I said, grinnin' a little.

Papa chuckled, shavin' down a fine strip of wood from his gator's back. "That so? You show 'em how it's done?"

"Yes, sir," I said proudly. "Me and Abby—we were runnin' circles around 'em. Jacob kept actin' like they let us win, but he knows better."

Mama laughed softly from her seat, listenin' as she leaned back in her chair. "Sounds like you had 'em runnin' scared."

I nodded, but then my knife slipped a little, and I had to slow down, focusin' on what I was doin'. The next part came out quieter, like I wasn't sure if I wanted to say it.

"I was thinkin'... if I was a boy, we'd all be on the same team. We'd be real good together."

I didn't look up right away, but I could feel Papa glancin' over at me. His voice stayed steady, calm like it always was when we talked about this stuff.

"You think bein' a boy would've made a difference?" he asked, smoothin' out the gator's snout with his knife.

I shrugged, shavin' off a little more wood from the side of my gator's belly. "Maybe. I don't know. Sometimes... I just feel like I fit better that way. When I'm runnin' with the boys, playin' hard... it's like it makes sense. But then... I don't wanna stop bein' me, neither."

The porch got real quiet, except for the sounds of the swamp—frogs croakin', crickets chirpin', and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze.

Mama was the first to speak, her voice soft but sure. "Well, baby... you don't gotta pick. You can be you—play ball, climb trees, whittle gators—and still come in here and help me bake pies. You don't have to be just one thing."

I looked up then, and Papa nodded, his eyes kind and steady.

"She's right," he said. "You're already part of the best team there is—our family. And we love you just the way you are."

My chest felt a little tight, but in a good way. Like I belonged.

I smiled, a small one at first, but then it grew bigger. "Thanks, y'all."

We went back to whittlin', the quiet comfortable now, like we'd all said what needed sayin'. I looked at my little gator again—still a little rough, but I liked it. It was mine.

After a while, the porch got real quiet again—just the soft scrape of our knives on wood and the frogs croakin' out by the swamp. Mama stood up, stretchin' a little with a yawn.

"Well, I'm headin' inside to check on that bread," she said, wipin' her hands on her apron. "Don't stay out here too long—you know them skeeters'll eat you alive."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, still focused on my little wooden gator's tail.

Papa nodded to her, then watched as she went inside, the screen door creakin' and slappin' shut behind her. The porch light cast a warm glow, but beyond it, everything was dark—just shadows and the sounds of the night.

That's when he spoke, his voice low and gentle, like he was makin' sure it was just for me.

"Emily," he said, not lookin' right at me, but still close enough that I knew it mattered. "Do you... do you want to be a boy?"

The question hung there in the warm night air, like the sound of the frogs had faded for a second.

I froze, my knife still pressed against the wood. I hadn't expected him to ask it—not like that. Not so plain.

I didn't know what to say at first, so I just stared down at my little gator. Its rough shape was startin' to look more like what I wanted it to be—still not perfect, but gettin' there.

I took a breath. "I... I don't know."

Papa didn't say nothin'. He just let me sit with it, like he was givin' me space to find the words.

"I feel like... sometimes I do," I whispered, pickin' at the edge of the wood. "When I'm runnin' around with the boys, climbin' trees, playin' soccer... it just feels right. Like I fit in better. Like I'm... one of 'em."

I paused, and my voice got even quieter. "But then other times... I like bein' me. I like sittin' with Mama and bakin' cookies, or wearin' my dress to church and feelin'... pretty. I don't wanna give that up, neither."

I glanced up at Papa, nervous about what I'd see in his face. But there wasn't nothin' bad there—just the same steady look he always had when he was listenin' to me like I was tellin' him somethin' important.

He nodded slow. "That's okay, baby. You don't gotta pick one or the other. You can just be you. You know that, right?"

I felt my chest ease up a little, like I'd been holdin' my breath without realizin' it. "Yes, sir."

He leaned back in his chair, tappin' his knife lightly on his knee. "I don't understand it all, Emily. But I know I love you, and I'll always be proud of you—whether you're climbin' trees or bakin' pies. Or both."

I smiled, feelin' that warm, safe feelin' I always got when Papa said stuff like that.

"Thanks, Papa."

He gave me a little wink. "Now, you better get that gator lookin' right—can't have you takin' a lopsided one to school."

I laughed, the knot in my chest finally loosening all the way. We went back to our whittlin', the soft scrape of knives and the call of the frogs fillin' the night again.

And I knew, right then, that whatever I figured out about myself—Papa was gonna be right there, every step of the way.

After a little while, the quiet settled back in—just the soft scrape of our knives and the hum of the swamp. But my mind wasn't still.

I chewed on my lip, my fingers workin' at the little gator's tail. I kept thinkin' about what Papa had asked me—about wantin' to be a boy. And about all the things I didn't understand, but felt like I should.

I glanced over at him, his face calm as he worked the detail into his gator's eyes. He wouldn't laugh at me. I knew that. He never had before.

So, I took a breath and asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.

"Papa... what's it like... havin' a... a penis?"

I felt my face heat up as soon as I said it. My heart thumped like I'd done somethin' wrong.

Papa's hand paused for just a second, then he let out a quiet breath through his nose—kinda like a laugh, but not a mean one. More like he wasn't surprised.

"Well... that's a question," he said, his voice low and steady, same as always.

I looked down at my gator, embarrassed. "Sorry."

He shook his head. "Ain't nothin' to be sorry for. You're curious. That's normal."

I peeked up at him. He was still workin', carvin' smooth like it was the easiest thing in the world.

"I don't rightly know how to explain it," he said after a moment. "It's just... part of me, same as your body's part of you. Don't think about it much—it's just there."

I nodded, even though it didn't exactly clear things up.

"But... when you were a kid... did you ever think about what it'd be like not to have one?"

He thought on that, his knife slowin' a bit.

"Not really," he said, honest as ever. "I guess... I always just felt like me. Didn't wonder much about bein' different. But I reckon that's 'cause nobody ever made me feel like I could be anythin' else."

I let his words settle. They made sense, but they also made me feel a little different—like maybe I was askin' questions other kids didn't. But Papa didn't make me feel weird about it. He made me feel like it was okay.

"You think I'm weird for askin' all this?" I mumbled.

He set his knife down for a second and looked at me real serious—kind, but firm.

"Emily, you listen to me. You ain't weird. You're you. And you're figurin' things out—same as every other kid, just in your own way. That's alright. There ain't nothin' wrong with askin' questions."

I nodded, feelin' that warm, safe feelin' again. Like no matter what was goin' on in my head, Papa was right there beside me.

I didn't have all the answers. I didn't know if I'd ever feel like a boy for sure—or if I'd always just be somewhere in between.

But sittin' there on the porch, with Papa carvin' a gator beside me, it felt like maybe that was okay.

Maybe I didn't need all the answers right now.

Maybe just bein' me was enough.

After a while, the night air started to cool, and the frogs' croakin' seemed louder as the sky got darker. Mama peeked out the door once to remind us it was gettin' late.

"It's about time to get washed up, Emily," she said, her voice soft.

"Yes, ma'am," I answered, but I stayed a few more minutes, runnin' my fingers over my little wooden gator. It wasn't perfect—not like Papa's. Mine was kinda bumpy, the tail was a little too thin, and the teeth were more like little dents than sharp points. But it was mine. And I was proud of it.

"I like it," I said, holdin' it up to Papa in the dim light.

He grinned. "So do I. That's a mighty fine gator, Emily."

That made me feel good. Even if it looked a little funny, it was somethin' I made with my own hands.

I gave Papa a hug before headin' inside. I washed up, brushed my teeth, and changed into my pajamas—soft shorts and an old t-shirt that felt just right.

When I crawled into bed, I placed my little wooden gator on my bedside table, right next to the bird Papa had carved for me last year. Both of 'em sittin' there like little treasures.

I knelt down beside my bed, like I did every night, foldin' my hands together.

"Dear Lord," I whispered, "Thank You for this day, and for Mama and Papa. Thank You for lettin' me run and play and make my gator. And... thank You for lettin' me be me."

I paused, my chest feelin' tight like it always did when I got to this part.

"Sometimes I feel like I wanna be a boy. And sometimes I like bein' a girl. I don't know why it's like that, but I just... I just wanna be okay. I hope You think I'm okay."

I felt tears prickle a little in my eyes, but I wiped 'em back.

"Please help me figure it out... and please don't let Mama or Papa ever stop lovin' me, no matter what."

I sat there in the quiet, listenin' to the frogs outside, their voices driftin' through the window. That sound always made me feel calm—like the swamp was singin' me to sleep.

I crawled under the covers, huggin' my pillow tight. As my eyes got heavy, I glanced once more at my little wooden gator, sittin' proud by the bird.

I smiled.

Maybe I didn't know who I'd be tomorrow... but for tonight, I was home. And that was enough.

The next morning started like any other—me runnin' a little late, stuffin' my notebook into my backpack while Mama reminded me not to forget my lunch. The bus ride was bumpy, and me and Abby talked the whole way about our gator project. She said her daddy saw one last summer that was "bigger than a car," though I figured she was stretchin' it just a little.

When we got to Folkston Elementary, we filed into class, and Mr. Johnson stood at the front like always, all straight-backed with his pressed shirt. He gave us that calm, clear "Good morning, class," and we all answered back—most of us anyway. Jacob kind of mumbled his "mornin'," and I saw Mr. Johnson's eyes narrow just a little. He didn't say nothin', but we all knew he noticed.

Math was first again, just like yesterday, and we were still workin' on our times tables—the zeros.

"Alright, class," Mr. Johnson said, steppin' up to the chalkboard. "Let's review. We talked about the zeros yesterday. Does anyone remember why multiplying by zero always gives you...?"

He paused, waitin'.

I shot my hand up quick. "Zero, sir."

"That's right, Emily. And can you remind the class why that is?"

I sat up a little straighter. "'Cause when you multiply somethin' by zero... it's like you don't have anythin'. Like, if you have five groups of nothin', you still got nothin'."

Mr. Johnson smiled and nodded. "Very good, Emily. That's exactly right. Five groups of zero is still zero. Or seven groups of zero is zero. No matter what number you start with—if you multiply it by zero, you end up with zero. Because... you have nothing."

He wrote it out big on the board:

5 x 0 = 0
7 x 0 = 0
12 x 0 = 0

It made sense to me now. It was kinda simple once you thought of it like that.

But then, Jacob raised his hand, his face all scrunched up.

"But... wait... so... what's zero times five? Is that still zero?" he asked, soundin' confused.

A few of the kids snickered, but Mr. Johnson held up his hand for quiet.

"Yes, Jacob," he said, patient but firm. "It works both ways. Zero times any number is still zero. Think of it this way—you can flip the numbers around. It's the same. Zero groups of five is still... nothing."

Jacob frowned, tappin' his pencil against his desk like he was battlin' it out in his head.

"So... zero times a hundred... still zero?"

"Yes."

"Zero times a thousand?"

"Yes, Jacob."

"...What about zero times a million?"

Mr. Johnson chuckled softly. "Still zero."

A few of us laughed, includin' me, but Jacob smiled too, finally gettin' it. I think.

"Alright, let's practice," Mr. Johnson said, handin' out some worksheets.

I started on mine, scribblin' through the zeros quick, feelin' pretty sure about 'em now. But I glanced over and saw Jacob still sittin' there, starin' at his paper, pencil hoverin'.

I leaned over just a bit, whisperin', "Hey... it's all zeros. Don't overthink it."

He glanced at me, then back down at his paper. I saw him write a big zero.

He gave me a little thumbs-up under his desk.

I smiled.

Math was tough sometimes... but at least we were all figurin' it out together.

After math, we had a quick break before reading class started. I was still feelin' pretty good about helpin' Jacob out earlier, but I knew readin' wasn't his favorite part of the day.

Mr. Johnson stood at the front of the room, holdin' a paper in his hand. His voice was clear and steady like always.

"Alright, class," he said. "This month, we're startin' somethin' new. You'll each pick a book to read, and at the end of the month, you'll give a short presentation about it."

There were a few groans, mostly from the back, but I leaned forward, curious. I liked readin'. Not as much as runnin' around outside—but still, I liked a good story.

"I've made a list of some books you might enjoy," Mr. Johnson continued. He held up the sheet and started readin' off names.

"The Bad Guys by Aaron Blabey."
"Charlotte's Web by E.B. White."
"Stuart Little by E.B. White."
"Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder."
"James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl."
"Pippi Longstocking by Astrid Lindgren."
"The Trumpet of the Swan by E.B. White."

I knew a couple of those names. Mama had read Charlotte's Web to me when I was little, and Papa had told me about Little House in the Big Woods—he said it was kinda like the stories his grandma used to tell about growin' up.

"You don't have to pick from this list," Mr. Johnson added. "But you do need to pick a chapter book. And when we go to the library today, I want you to start lookin' for one you're interested in."

I saw Jacob slump back in his seat a little, and I knew he was hopin' for somethin' with more pictures and fewer words. But Mr. Johnson didn't give him much time to complain. He clapped his hands.

"Alright, line up. Let's head to the library."

We all got up, chairs scrapin' against the floor, and made our way down the hall. The library smelled like paper and floor polish, and the shelves were packed with books that seemed to stretch up forever—at least to us kids.

Mr. Johnson reminded us once we were inside, "Remember—this is a time to look for a book for your report. Comics are fun, but they're not what we're lookin' for today."

He gave Jacob a little look when he said it, but that didn't seem to sink in.

I started wanderin' through the shelves with Abby, pickin' up a few books here and there. She grabbed James and the Giant Peach off the list and said her sister loved it.

"I think this one looks fun," she said, flippin' through the pages.

"Yeah, it's got bugs in it," I said, grinnin'. "Sounds good to me."

I was still tryin' to decide when somethin' caught my eye near the back corner—a book with a big ol' gator right on the cover.

Alligators and Crocodiles: Predators of the Swamp.

My heart jumped a little. It was like the book had been waitin' for me.

I pulled it off the shelf, flippin' through the pictures of sharp teeth, scaly tails, and wide, powerful jaws. There were facts about how they hunt, how fast they can swim, and even how their eyes glow at night.

"This is perfect for our project," I whispered to Abby, showin' her a page with a huge gator in the water.

Her eyes got wide. "That thing's huge!"

I nodded. Papa would love this—I just knew it. And it'd help us make our poster even better.

While I was checkin' out the gator book, we heard a little commotion over by the comics section.

"Oh no," Abby muttered. "Look."

We peeked around the shelf and saw Jacob standin' there, holdin' a Garfield book, with a stack of Peanuts comics right beside him. He had this guilty look on his face, like he knew he was caught.

Mr. Johnson was right there, arms crossed, brows raised.

"Jacob," he said, his voice firm but not mean. "I believe I mentioned chapter books, didn't I?"

"Yes, sir," Jacob mumbled, slidin' the Garfield book back onto the shelf.

"You can check those out another time," Mr. Johnson said. "But today, you're findin' a proper book for your report."

"Yes, sir," Jacob repeated, red in the face.

Me and Abby ducked back behind the shelf, tryin' not to laugh.

---

As we stood in line to check out our books, Abby nudged me with her elbow.

"So, what chapter book did you pick out?" she asked.

I held up my second book—it wasn't the gator one, though I was still clutchin' that close. This one had a little girl on the cover, sittin' on a pile of books, with her finger restin' on her chin like she was figurin' out a big secret.

"It's called Matilda, by Roald Dahl," I said, squintin' at the name. "I think he wrote that peach book you got, too."

Abby peeked at it. "What's it about?"

I shrugged. "I dunno... but it looked like a good book."

That was the truth. I didn't have a clue what it was about—but somethin' about the cover, and the big stack of books, made me think it'd be interestin'.

"Probably better than Little House on the Prairie," Abby whispered, grinnin'.

I giggled. "Yeah... though I bet Mama woulda liked that one.

When we all checked out our books, I carried my gator book like it was gold. I couldn't wait to show it to Papa. He'd probably know half the stuff in it already—but still, it felt like I'd found somethin' special. Like a piece of home right there in the library.

When the bell rang after class, we all bolted out onto the playground like a stampede of wild horses let loose. It was hot—real hot—the kind of heat that made the air shimmer and the dirt hard as bricks beneath our shoes. But that didn't matter. Me and Abby were ready, and so were the boys.

Jacob was already callin' across the field. "Y'all ready to get whooped this time?" he hollered, bouncin' the soccer ball on his knee, a cocky grin spread across his face.

I smirked, hands on my hips. "We'll see who's gettin' whooped!"

We all knew the drill. The sticks got set up for goals, same as always. No goalies, no refs, just pride on the line. The boys versus me and Abby. We weren't about to let 'em win easy.

Mr. Anderson, the playground attendant, leaned against the chain-link fence with his sunglasses perched on his nose. He had that easy kind of watchful look, arms crossed, but we all knew he didn't put up with foolishness. If anyone got too wild, he'd be right there in a heartbeat.

The sun beat down on us like it had a grudge. Sweat already trickled down the back of my neck, and my hair stuck to my forehead. The dust from the field clung to our shoes and made little clouds with every step.

The game started fast. Jacob and Brian pushed hard, tryin' to get that first goal. Jacob was quick, and Brian had a powerful kick, but Abby cut 'em off fast, her face all set with determination. She sent the ball my way with a sharp tap.

"Here, Emily!" Abby shouted.

I took off, my legs burnin' but feelin' strong. The wind rushed past my ears, and my heart pounded in time with my footsteps. I could hear the boys closin' in behind me. Jacob was fast, but I was faster—or at least I felt like I was.

I passed it back to Abby, and she dashed forward like a blur. The boys weren't givin' up, though. Elbows out, feet flyin'—we were all breathin' hard now, the game gettin' rougher by the second. Nobody wanted to lose.

Then it happened.

I was movin' fast, tryin' to block Jacob from takin' a shot. My eyes were locked on the ball, my mind thinkin' one step ahead. But I didn't see it—a root or a rock, half-buried under the dirt. My foot hit it hard. Everything went wrong in an instant.

I stumbled forward, arms flailin', my knee scrapin' against the dry ground before I landed hard on my side. My left arm twisted underneath me in a way it shouldn't have. Pain shot up from my wrist to my elbow—sharp and quick, like fire shootin' through my bones.

"Ow!" I yelped, tears stingin' my eyes before I could stop 'em. I curled around my arm, holdin' it close to my chest. It throbbed somethin' awful.

Everything froze for a second. The boys stopped, their faces shiftin' from tough to worried. Abby skidded to a stop beside me, her eyes wide and mouth tight.

Jacob stood there too, his cocky grin gone. His face looked kinda pale. Maybe he thought it was his fault.

"Emily, you okay?" Abby asked, kneelin' beside me. Her voice was soft, but there was worry underneath it.

I tried to nod, but my voice was shaky. "I—I think I hurt my arm..."

Before anyone could say more, Mr. Anderson was already stridin' over, his sunglasses pushed up on his head now, eyes serious.

"What happened here?" he asked, his voice calm but firm.

"She fell, hit her arm," Abby explained fast.

Mr. Anderson knelt down, his hand gentle on my shoulder. "Alright, let's get you to the nurse. You think you can walk, sweetheart?"

I nodded, even though my wrist throbbed somethin' fierce. He helped me up slow, keepin' a steady hand on my back as we started toward the school.

Before I got too far, I turned back, holdin' my sore arm close. "Keep playin'! Beat 'em for me!"

Abby stood up straighter, eyes flashin' with determination. "We got this!"

Jacob gave a small nod, lookin' sorry but ready to keep goin'. The game roared back to life—dust risin', shoes poundin' the ground. Abby led the charge now, and I knew she wasn't about to let them win without a fight.

As I walked inside with Mr. Anderson, the pain in my arm was bad, but there was somethin' good about knowin' Abby was out there, playin' her heart out for both of us.

The air inside Mrs. Tate's office felt colder than the rest of the school—too cold—especially after comin' in from the hot sun. My cheeks were still flushed, my hair stuck to my forehead, and my wrist was throbbin', feelin' like it had its own little heartbeat.

The room was small and tidy, with white walls that made everything feel even colder, and cabinets lined with plastic bins labeled with black marker—Bandages, Ice Packs, Cotton Balls. There was a faint smell of alcohol wipes and that weird rubbery scent from the gloves she always wore.

Her desk sat in the corner, neat and organized—a black phone, a lamp, and a row of those little plastic trays holdin' papers. I noticed a bowl of peppermint candies, the kind that melted quick in your mouth, sittin' right next to a box of tissues.

"Alright, sugar, come on and sit right here," Mrs. Tate said, pullin' out a metal stool with a padded top, the kind that squeaked every time you shifted.

I climbed up slowly, cradlin' my arm, tryin' not to move it too much. It still hurt, but I didn't wanna cry—I was tougher than that, but the sting was still workin' its way up to my elbow.

Mrs. Tate knelt down beside me, her hands gentle as she looked me over. She had short, gray hair cut neat like Mama's friend from church, and reading glasses on a chain danglin' around her neck.

"Let's take a look," she said softly, her fingers cool and smooth against my skin as she touched my wrist.

I winced.

"Hm... Sore, huh?"

"Yes, ma'am," I mumbled, starin' at the scuffed tips of my shoes to keep from lookin' at what she was doin'.

She turned my hand slowly, checkin' my range of motion—bending my wrist up, then down, then side to side. I bit my lip when it hurt, but I didn't say nothin'. Her fingers pressed around my wrist bone—gently at first, then firmer—lookin' for any spots that might be worse off.

"Does this hurt?" she asked, pressin' on the side.

"A little," I said, my voice tight.

She nodded, like she already knew the answer.

"Looks like just a sprain—nothin' broken. You're lucky," she said, reachin' over to grab a roll of white bandage wrap from the bin labeled 'Wraps & Splints'.

I watched as she unrolled it with a soft whooshing sound, then started wrappin' it around my wrist and up toward my hand, snug but not too tight. The fabric was slightly rough against my skin, but the pressure made the ache dull down just a little.

"This'll keep it supported. You'll need to take it easy today, alright? No more soccer, no climbin', no horsin' around."

I nodded, though it stung to hear that. No soccer? That meant watchin' from the sidelines tomorrow, and that just didn't sit right with me.

"You want some ice?" she asked.

I thought about it but shook my head. I didn't want to stay here longer than I had to.

"Alright, but if it starts swellin', you let me know," she said, patting my knee lightly.

I glanced toward the bowl of peppermints on her desk.

She caught me lookin' and smiled. "Go on, take one."

I slid off the stool, feelin' the squeak of it under me one last time, and grabbed a peppermint from the bowl. The wrapper crinkled loudly in my hand, and I popped the candy into my mouth. Sweet and cool, it melted fast—like it always did—but it made me feel a little better.

"Tell your teacher I said you're good to go, just need to rest that arm," Mrs. Tate said, scribblin' a quick note on a yellow slip of paper with my name on it. She folded it in half and handed it to me.

"Thank you, ma'am," I said, tucking the note in my pocket.

I stepped out of her office, back into the hall, the air suddenly feelin' warmer again. My wrist still hurt, but now it was wrapped up tight, like a badge of honor from the day's battle.

And the peppermint? Well, that made the pain just a little sweeter.

The bell rang, and the game was over—Jacob's voice ringin' out louder than anyone's.

"Boys win! Five to four! Y'all better be ready tomorrow!" he hollered, arms in the air like he was some kinda champion.

I was just steppin' out of the nurse's office, my wrist wrapped up tight, when Abby caught up with me outside the cafeteria doors. Her face was twisted in that mix of mad and disappointed.

"They got us," she grumbled. "Jacob scored the last goal. He won't shut up about it."

I glanced past her and sure enough, there was Jacob and Brian, laughin' and carryin' on like they'd won a trophy.

I sighed, holdin' my wrist close. "I figured. You okay?"

"Yeah, just... we almost had 'em," she said, kickin' at the floor a little.

"We'll get 'em tomorrow," I said, givin' her a grin that was part encouragement and part challenge. "Soon as my wrist's better... they're goin' down."

That got Abby smilin' again, just a little. "Yeah. We'll make 'em sorry."

We headed to our usual spot in the cafeteria, but instead of gettin' in line for hot lunch, I dug my brown paper bag outta my backpack.

Inside was the sandwich Mama made this mornin', with the bread she baked last night. It was soft and warm when we pulled it outta the oven yesterday, and now it still smelled better than anything you could buy in town.

I peeled back the baggie, takin' a big bite—ham and cheese with a little smear of mustard, tucked between those fresh slices Mama had worked so hard on.

"Homemade bread again?" Abby asked, eyein' my sandwich.

"Yep," I said, mouth full, but happy.

She unwrapped her peanut butter and jelly, but I caught her sneakin' another glance at mine.

"You can have a bite if you want," I offered.

"Nah," she said, but I could tell she was tempted.

Jacob's voice carried across the lunchroom. "Y'all know that goal was perfect, right? I mean, right through the sticks."

I rolled my eyes, chewin' my sandwich slower.

"We'll shut him up tomorrow," I whispered.

"You better believe it," Abby grinned.

I took another big bite of Mama's fresh bread sandwich, the soft crust still tastin' like yesterday even after sittin' in my bag all mornin'. Jacob's voice drifted over from his table like he was tryin' to make sure the whole lunchroom heard him.

"I mean, did y'all see that goal? Best shot I ever made. Ain't no stoppin' me tomorrow," he said, laughin' with Brian.

Abby sighed and rolled her eyes.
"He's gonna be talkin' 'bout that goal all week."

I grinned, wipin' a crumb from my mouth.
"Let him. We'll see how much he talks when we beat him next time."

She smirked but then leaned in a little closer.
"So... Matilda, huh? What's it about?"

I shrugged.
"I don't know much... I just liked the cover. It looked kinda... fun?"

Abby nodded, takin' a sip of her chocolate milk.
"So Roald Dahl wrote both of them. He must be pretty good if we both grabbed his books."

I smiled. "Guess we'll find out."

She thought for a second, then grinned.
"You think it's like James and the Giant Peach? Like, does Matilda live in a giant fruit?"

I almost spit out my drink laughin'.
"I don't think so... but that'd be kinda funny!"

We both giggled, imaginin' some poor girl livin' inside a watermelon or somethin'.

"You're gonna have to tell me if it's good," Abby said. "If it is, maybe I'll read it next."

I nodded.
"Deal. You gotta let me know if that peach book's any good, too."

We clinked our chocolate milk cartons like we were makin' some kind of official pact.

Jacob's voice cut through again, still loud, still full of himself.
"We're runnin' y'all into the ground tomorrow. Just get ready."

I shot him a quick look, but Abby nudged me.

"Let him run his mouth," she whispered. "We'll handle him later."

I grinned, takin' the last bite of my sandwich.
Mama's bread tasted even better knowin' we had a plan.

I was sittin' on the couch, my wrist restin' on a pillow, while Mama fussed over me like I'd gone and broken every bone in my body. The afternoon sun poured through the window, casting warm light across the room, but it didn't soften the tight knot of worry in Mama's face. She didn't say much, but I could see it plain as day every time her eyes flicked to my hand.

"You sure you ain't feelin' worse?" she asked, her voice soft but firm, the way it got when she meant business.

"I'm fine, Mama," I said, though the dull ache in my wrist hadn't let up since recess. The wrap Mrs. Tate put on it at school felt snug, but the throb underneath was steady. "Mrs. Tate said it's just a sprain."

Mama sighed, wipin' her hands on her apron like she was tryin' to wipe the worry away too. Her brow was creased, and I knew she wouldn't rest easy until I was back to runnin' around like my usual self.

"I know... I just don't like seein' you hurt," she murmured.

She disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of the freezer door creakin' open and the rustle of plastic bags fillin' the quiet. A minute later, she came back with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel.

"Here—put this on it," she said, handin' it over like it was a cure-all.

I took the peas and laid them gently over my wrist. The cold bit in sharp at first, sendin' a shiver up my arm, but then it started to dull the ache. I relaxed into the cushion a little, lettin' the coolness work its magic.

Mama sat down beside me, her arm restin' lightly across my shoulders, warm and comfortin'. I leaned into her, breathin' in the faint scent of flour and soap that always clung to her.

"I was thinkin' we'd make Khachapuri tonight," she said, her voice soft but a little brighter. "I know how much you liked it when we made it last time."

My face lit up. I loved Khachapuri—the warm, doughy bread filled with gooey cheese and topped with an egg, all melty and rich. Papa called it "cheese boat bread" the first time we made it, and we all laughed, but it stuck.

"That sounds real good, Mama," I said, the ache in my wrist forgotten for a second.

"Can I help?" I asked, hopeful.

Mama looked at me like I'd sprouted a second head.
"With one hand? I don't think so, baby. You just sit tight."

I frowned, my face fallin' a little.
"But I always help," I mumbled. Bein' in the kitchen with Mama was our thing. Choppin', stirrin', tastin'—it felt wrong sittin' out.

Mama sighed again, but this time, there was a small smile tuggin' at her lips.
"You're just like your Papa—stubborn as a mule," she said, givin' me a squeeze.

I grinned, feelin' proud of that. Bein' like Papa was a good thing in my book.

As Mama got up and started gatherin' the flour and cheese, I watched her from the couch, listenin' to the familiar sounds of home—the clink of the mixing bowl, the whisk scrapin' against it, and the quiet hum of her voice as she started hummin' a hymn from church.

Even though my wrist hurt, everythin' still felt right.

And I couldn't wait to tear into that cheesy bread later.

I yawned, grabbed the remote off the coffee table and turned on the TV.
The screen lit up to WJXT 4, the same news channel Mama always had on when she was cleanin' or startin' dinner.

The news anchor, a woman with short blonde hair and a real serious face, was talkin' about somethin' that sounded important—but not to me.

"Authorities are still investigatin' the cause of the brush fire that broke out late Sunday evening near the edge of the Osceola National Forest. Fire crews say the blaze burned through approximately twenty acres before it was contained this mornin'. No homes were damaged, but officials remind residents to remain cautious during this dry season."

I blinked, not really takin' it all in, but listenin' just the same. I knew where Osceola was—it wasn't too far, but not close enough to worry Mama or Papa.

The screen switched to a shot of a man in a suit standin' outside, wavin' his hand toward a map with a bunch of red arrows.

"And in weather," he said with a voice that almost made me yawn, "temperatures will remain high through the weekend, with a chance of scattered thunderstorms Friday afternoon. Humidity levels will be up, so it'll be another sticky one, folks."

I slouched lower into the couch, adjustin' the bag of peas on my wrist.
The weatherman's hands kept wavin' around like he was directin' traffic, but all I heard was: hot, sticky, maybe rain—same as always in Georgia.

Then came the part that made me perk up a little.

"In sports, the Jacksonville Jaguars are gearin' up for their preseason opener this Saturday. Head coach Doug Pederson says the team's lookin' strong, with quarterback Trevor Lawrence leadin' drills at today's practice."

I smiled a little. Papa liked the Jaguars, even when they weren't winnin' much. When he watched a game on Sunday, I'd sit next to him sometimes, pretendin' I understood more than I really did. Mostly, I just liked cheerin' when he cheered.

The news went back to the anchor.

"And finally, a reminder that the annual Okefenokee Swamp Festival is just a few weeks away. Organizers say there'll be live music, local crafts, and of course, plenty of fried gator tail for those feelin' brave."

That part made me laugh—gator tail was nothin' new to me, but folks from out of town always acted like it was some wild, exotic thing.

Mama peeked out from the kitchen.
"What's so funny?"

"They're talkin' 'bout gator tail like it's fancy food."

She laughed, shakin' her head.
"Well, I reckon we're a little more used to it than most."

I nodded, sinkin' back into the couch. The news kept on, but it started driftin' into that kinda background noise that made my eyes feel heavy.

The news kept on, but after a few more minutes of brush fires and traffic reports, my mind started wanderin'. My wrist still ached under the bag of peas, and listenin' to grown folks talk about the weather wasn't doin' much to make me feel better.

I grabbed the remote and clicked through a few channels until bright colors filled the screen—some cartoon I didn't recognize, but it didn't matter. Little animals runnin' around, chasin' each other with big eyes and squeaky voices—the kind of thing that always made me smile, even when I tried to act like I was too old for it.

I sank deeper into the couch, lettin' the silly voices and cheerful music wash over me like a warm breeze. For a little while, I forgot all about my wrist, the soccer game, and Jacob's gloatin'. It was just me, the couch, and some goofy cartoon dog dancin' across the screen.

Mama peeked in from the kitchen, saw me smilin', and gave a little nod like she was glad I'd found somethin' to lift my spirits.

Sometimes, cartoons could fix a day better than any ice pack.

I was halfway through watchin' some silly cartoon dog fall into a bucket of paint when I heard the familiar honk of Papa's truck down the driveway. My heart jumped like it always did when he got home—I loved seein' him, hearin' about his day, and most of all, maybe gettin' a little surprise he made at work.

I started to push myself up off the couch, ready to run out like I always did, but Mama's voice cut me short.

"Uh-uh, Emily. You stay right there," she said from the kitchen, her tone soft but firm. "Let him come in."

I stopped, a little pout formnin' on my lips.
"But Mama—"

"No 'buts.' That wrist needs rest. You heard what Mrs. Tate said."

I sighed, slinkin' back into the couch.
Didn't feel right.
I always ran out to see Papa—always. Not today, though. I stayed put, feelin' kinda like one of those chickens when Mama made them sit still in her lap for trimmin' their feathers.

The screen door creaked open, and I heard Papa's boots hit the wooden floor.
He called out like he always did—loud and cheery.

"I'm home!"

Usually, I'd be wrapped 'round his waist by now, but today, I stayed quiet on the couch, feelin' a little awkward.
I saw Papa peek 'round the corner, his brows liftin' when he saw me sittin' still.

"Well, what's this now? My wild little girl ain't rushin' out to tackle me? Somethin' wrong?" His voice was light, but there was a thread of concern under it. He knew me too well.

Mama came in, dryin' her hands on a dish towel, shootin' me a look that said, You tell him, or I will.

I shifted, holdin' up my wrist.
"I hurt it... at recess," I admitted, a little embarrassed. "Fell playin' soccer."

Papa's eyes narrowed slightly—not angry, just worried. He came over, crouchin' beside the couch.
"Let me see, baby."

I carefully pulled the peas off, showin' him the wrap. He examined it close, his rough fingers gentle against my skin.

"Mrs. Tate did this?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I nodded. "She said it's just a sprain."

Papa let out a slow breath, his worry easin' a little.
"Well... looks like she fixed you up right. You gonna be okay, kiddo?"

"I'm okay," I said, though my voice was quieter than usual.

He smiled, rufflin' my hair real gentle so he didn't bump my wrist.
"That's my tough girl."

Mama was watchin' us from the doorway, her arms crossed—but her eyes had softened now that Papa knew what was goin' on.

"Dinner'll be ready soon," she said, "so don't get her riled up."

Papa stood, smilin' at her.
"No rilin'—I promise."

But I knew he'd still sneak me somethin' fun later—maybe a carved critter, or a story, or just a joke to make me laugh. That was how Papa was.

"Lord, we thank You for this food, for the hands that made it, and for the day You gave us. We ask You to bless this home and our family. And, Lord, please watch over Emily's wrist—help it heal up quick and strong. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I said together.

I peeked up at Papa, feelin' a little knot in my chest—the good kind.
I always loved the way he prayed.
Simple. Honest. Like he was talkin' to a friend.

Dinner smelled amazing.

Mama had set out the Khachapuri, still steamin', the cheese bubblin' in the center with the egg just right.
There were also some fresh tomatoes sliced with salt and pepper and sweet tea—the kind that made your teeth tingle a little.

As we dug in, I tried my best to cut into the Khachapuri with my left hand—the wrong hand. It felt all kinds of awkward.
The fork kept slippin', and when I finally got a piece up to my mouth, some cheese stretched out like a string, dangling halfway to my chin.

Mama noticed, hidin' a smile behind her napkin.
"Want some help, baby?"

"No, ma'am," I said, determined.
I gripped the fork tighter, like it was a wild horse needin' taming, and managed to get another bite.

Papa chuckled low under his breath, watchin' me wrestle my dinner.

"You'll get it, kiddo," he said with a wink.
"Back when I broke my thumb workin' on Old Man Harper's roof, I had to hammer nails with my left hand for two weeks straight. Thought I was gonna knock the whole house down. But I got the hang of it. You will too."

I smiled, feelin' a little better. If Papa could do it, so could I.

Mama gave him a look like she'd heard that story a thousand times, but it still made her smile.

"How was work today?" she asked him, spearin' a tomato slice with her fork.

Papa wiped his mouth with his napkin, leanin' back in his chair a little.
"Busy as ever. Worked on finishin' up the cabinets for the Tanners' kitchen. They want that fancy wood—what's it called? Walnut?"

Mama nodded. "That's the expensive kind."

Papa laughed. "Sure is. Had me sweatin' all day, makin' sure I didn't mess it up. Sanded every piece twice, just to be safe. But it's comin' together real nice. Gonna look sharp."

I listened close, picturin' him in the workshop, sawdust floatin' through the air, sunlight streamin' in from the windows while he built those cabinets with his own two hands.

"Did you make anything else?" I asked, hopin' for another little wooden critter like the fox or the gator.

Papa smiled. "Not today. But maybe tomorrow... we'll see."

I nodded, satisfied.
Just the thought that he might make somethin' special for me someday soon made my heart feel warm.

After we cleaned up from dinner—Mama not lettin' me touch a single dish with my wrist wrapped up—we all made our way to the porch.
That was our favorite place to end the day, especially when the air was still warm but not too hot, and the sun was slippin' behind the trees.

Papa settled into his rocker, his boots tappin' lightly against the wooden floorboards.
Mama took her spot on the swing, a glass of sweet tea in her hand, swayin' slow.
And I sat cross-legged right there on the porch steps, restin' my arm on my knee, lookin' out at the yard as the first lightning bugs started flickerin' in the grass.

We were quiet for a while, just listenin' to the swamp sounds—frogs croakin', crickets chirpin', and the far-off hoot of an owl somewhere past the trees.

Then Papa leaned forward, his voice low and easy.

"You know, my granddaddy—your great-granddaddy—he used to sit on a porch kinda like this every night, just like we're doin' now," he started, his eyes gazin' out like he was seein' a memory instead of the yard.
"He was a tough man—hard workin'. Built this here house with his bare hands, every board and nail. And he could fish better than anyone I ever met."

I leaned in, eager. I loved hearin' about family from before I was born—especially folks like Great-Granddaddy, who sounded like he belonged in a storybook.

"What was his name?" I asked.

"Henry," Papa said with a little grin, like just sayin' his name brought back a flood of memories.
"Henry Saunders. But everyone 'round here called him Hank."

"Hank," I repeated, likin' the sound of it.

Papa nodded. "He was quiet most days, but when he talked, you listened. I remember sittin' out with him, kinda like we are now, and he'd tell me all about the swamp—where the best fishin' holes were, how to read the water when the gators were nearby, and how to follow deer tracks through the woods."

He paused, rockin' slow.

"One time... I was 'bout your age, maybe a little older. We were fishin' at the creek down past the old Miller place—before that land got cleared. I hooked the biggest catfish I'd ever seen. I was reelin' and fightin', and just when I thought I had him, the line snapped. I thought I was gonna cry right there. But your great-granddaddy? He just patted me on the back and said, 'Sometimes the fish wins, boy. But we come back tomorrow.'"

I smiled, picturin' Papa as a kid, all frustrated over losin' a fish.
That sounded like somethin' Papa would say to me now, and it made me feel closer to Great-Granddaddy Hank, even though I'd never met him.

Mama was smilin' too, listenin' quietly like she loved hearin' these stories just as much as I did.

I tucked my knees up to my chest, restin' my chin on them.
I liked thinkin' about family sittin' on porches just like this, sharin' stories, listenin' to the frogs, and watchin' the sun go down.

It made me feel like I was part of somethin' bigger—like Hank's blood was in me too, makin' me strong, teachin' me patience... even when it came to healin' up a sprained wrist.

The next morning, I woke up to the smell of pancakes drifting through the air. It was warm and inviting, like a hug made of butter and maple syrup, and for a fleeting moment, I let myself enjoy it before the familiar nervousness crept back in. The weight of being in a new home, surrounded by people I barely knew, settled over me like a shadow I couldn't quite shake.

A soft knocking on my bedroom door broke the silence.

"Emily? Breakfast is ready," Mrs. Blake called gently from the other side.

Her voice was calm and steady, and I clung to it like a lifeline. I sat up slowly, pulling the quilt around me as if its warmth might somehow fortify me for the day ahead. The room, with its soft blue walls and an old rocking chair tucked in the corner, was still and quiet. A faint beam of morning light slipped through the gap in the curtains, stretching lazily across the wooden floor. My bare feet met the cool surface as I stood, the slight chill waking me up further. I grabbed a sweater from the chair by my bed and wrapped it around me before opening the door.

Mrs. Blake stood there with a warm smile, her hair loosely pulled back, and a soft kindness in her eyes that I hadn't seen often enough in the past few years. "Good morning," she said. "Come down when you're ready. Take your time."

I nodded, my voice caught somewhere in my throat, and followed her down the hallway a few moments later. The house was peaceful, the kind of quiet that felt lived-in rather than empty. Each creak of the wooden steps beneath my feet was accompanied by the increasingly vivid scent of breakfast—the buttery sweetness of pancakes, the sharp tang of oranges, and the unmistakable comfort of maple syrup.

The kitchen came into view, bathed in the golden light streaming through the window above the sink. It was cozy and alive, the kind of place that made you want to linger even after the dishes were done. The table was set with care—plates of pancakes piled high, a bowl of fresh fruit that shimmered in the light, and a small pitcher of syrup glinting like liquid amber.

Sam and Lily were already seated, their voices tumbling over each other in an animated conversation. Sam's bedhead stuck up in all directions, and a streak of syrup glistened on his chin as he gestured wildly about a soccer move he'd seen at school. Across from him, Lily wore a bright smile and an equally bright bracelet, its rainbow beads clinking softly as she leaned forward, utterly engrossed in her brother's story.

"Good morning, Emily!" Lily chirped when she noticed me, her face lighting up as if we'd been best friends for years. She waved so enthusiastically that her bracelet nearly flew off her wrist.

Sam glanced up and grinned at me before turning his attention back to his pancakes, clearly more interested in breakfast than formalities.

Mrs. Blake gestured to the empty chair beside Lily. "Have a seat, Emily. I hope you're hungry."

I sat down, careful not to disturb the lively rhythm of their morning. The chair felt sturdy beneath me, and for some reason, that small, solid detail gave me a flicker of reassurance. Mrs. Blake placed a plate in front of me—a perfect stack of golden pancakes, their edges crisp and slightly uneven in a way that spoke of love, not perfection.

"Here you go," she said with a smile. "Let me know if you want seconds."

"Thank you," I whispered, the words barely escaping my lips. I picked up my fork and took a tentative bite. The pancakes were soft and sweet, the kind that practically melted in your mouth. A small, unexpected spark of comfort warmed me from the inside out, chasing away some of the lingering chill.

Around me, the Blakes' chatter continued like a melody I hadn't yet learned but longed to hum along to. Sam described his soccer trick in more detail, his hands flailing in exaggerated movements that made Lily burst into giggles. She, in turn, held up a rainbow cat drawing she'd made the day before, declaring it a masterpiece worthy of the fridge.

Mrs. Blake smiled as she reached for a strand of Lily's hair, tucking it gently behind her ear. "It's beautiful, Lily. We'll find a magnet for it after breakfast."

Lily beamed, clutching the drawing like it was the most valuable thing in the world. "I'm going to make one with a unicorn next!" she announced with conviction.

Sam rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the playful grin tugging at his lips. "As long as it's not as glittery as the last one. I'm still finding glitter in my soccer shoes."

"It's not my fault you don't appreciate art!" Lily shot back, sticking her tongue out at him.

Their playful bickering filled the room with a kind of warmth that felt foreign and familiar all at once. I didn't say much, but I listened, soaking in the sounds of a family being a family. Their laughter and the easy hum of their conversation wrapped around me like a soft, warm blanket, leaving me feeling slightly less like an outsider.

As the meal went on, Mrs. Blake noticed my empty plate. "Would you like another pancake, Emily?" she asked, her voice gentle.

I hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Yes, please."

Her smile widened as she placed another pancake on my plate, this one larger than the last. She leaned down slightly, her voice just above a whisper. "You're doing great, you know," she said.

The words caught me off guard. I blinked up at her, unsure of how to respond, but her tone was steady and warm, like an anchor in a storm. Those simple words settled into me, quiet but powerful, like they belonged there.

After breakfast, I couldn't help but wonder where Mr. Blake had gone. He hadn't joined us at the table, and his absence felt like a puzzle missing a crucial piece. Mrs. Blake noticed my wandering eyes and gave a soft smile.
"He's in his office," she explained, setting her coffee cup down with a light clink. "He works from home most days. His office is just down the hall."
"Oh," I said simply, not sure what else to add. I shrugged and made my way back to my room.

Once inside, I perched on the edge of the bed, staring absently at the faint patterns the morning light made through the curtains. It was a quiet kind of moment, the kind where your thoughts turn in on themselves, twisting and tumbling like leaves caught in a breeze.

I wasn't sure what to make of this house, this family, or the odd feelings that swirled in my chest. Mrs. Blake had been so kind, and Mr. Blake seemed nice enough, but the idea of fitting in here felt as foreign as wearing someone else's shoes. Comfortable for them, maybe, but strange for me.

Just as I was starting to settle into my thoughts, there came a knock at the door—light at first, then more excited and insistent.

"Emily! Do you want to play?"

The voice was high and sweet, brimming with the kind of excitement that seemed impossible to ignore. It was Lily.

I froze for a moment, unsure how to respond. Before I could gather my thoughts, another voice joined hers. This one was deeper and carried an easy, relaxed tone.

"We've got a soccer ball!" Sam said, his words carrying a casual confidence. "Or Lily can show you her art stuff. Come on, it'll be fun!"

I stood up, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet as I crossed the room. Slowly, I cracked the door open and peeked out at them.

Lily stood there clutching a colorful box of markers, her pigtails bouncing with every eager movement. Her face was bright, her excitement practically shining through her small frame. Next to her, Sam held a slightly deflated soccer ball under one arm, his grin wide and welcoming, as though he couldn't imagine any answer other than yes.

I hesitated, my hand tightening on the doorknob. "I... I don't know," I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

Sam tilted his head slightly, his grin softening but never faltering. "You don't have to if you don't want to," he said, his tone calm and easy. "But if you change your mind, we'll be in the backyard."

Lily chimed in with a quick nod, her markers rattling in the box she held. "Yeah! We're just playing. No big deal."

Before I could find the words to respond, they both dashed off down the hall, their laughter trailing behind them like a cheerful melody that filled the quiet corners of the house.

I closed the door gently and leaned against it, staring down at the floor as a strange mix of guilt and longing stirred inside me. Part of me wanted to join them, to chase after that easy laughter and lose myself in whatever games or drawings they had planned. But the other part—the heavier part, the one weighed down by thoughts I couldn't quite name—kept me rooted in place.

I looked toward the window, the sunlight spilling through in soft golden beams. It seemed so easy for them, so effortless to invite someone in, to laugh, to play. For me, though, it felt like standing at the edge of a pool, unsure if I could dive in without sinking.

I sighed and walked over to the window, peering out. From this angle, I could see them in the backyard. Sam was tossing the soccer ball up in the air while Lily sat cross-legged on the grass, already engrossed in sketching something on a piece of paper. They looked so happy, so at ease.

For a moment, I pressed my forehead against the glass, wondering what it would feel like to join them—to laugh without worry, to let go of the weight that seemed to follow me everywhere.

But instead of heading outside, I stayed where I was, watching from a distance as the morning sunlight bathed them in a warmth I wasn't sure I could reach.

The hours dragged by like molasses. I read a little, skimmed through the same pages more times than I could count, and stared out the window, letting the sunlight paint patterns on the floor. Despite the bright day outside, I felt caged, my thoughts circling like restless birds. I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that I was missing out on something—a moment, an adventure, or maybe just a feeling of freedom. By the time the afternoon sun was high, its golden warmth spilling across the yard, I couldn't stay inside another second.

I slipped through the back door, the familiar creak of the hinge breaking the heavy silence. The backyard unfolded like a scene from a storybook, vibrant and alive. The sweet scent of freshly cut grass hung in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the flower beds Mom had planted last spring. The rhythmic buzz of cicadas filled the space between chirping birds, their lazy melodies weaving a warm summer symphony.

Sam was in the middle of the yard, the soccer ball a blur as he kicked it into the air, caught it on his knee, and rolled it along his foot with a practiced ease. His shaggy brown hair fell into his eyes, but he didn't seem to notice. He was completely in his element. Not far from him, under the dappled shade of the big oak tree, Lily sat cross-legged on the grass. Her markers were scattered around her like tiny jewels, their caps off as if she had forgotten they could dry out. She was absorbed in her drawing, her face scrunched up in concentration, her tongue poking out just slightly.

Sam spotted me first, his eyes lighting up. "Hey, Emily! Want to try?" he called, his voice carrying over the hum of the afternoon. He motioned toward the ball with an inviting wave.

I hesitated, my toes curling in my sneakers as I stood at the edge of the grass. The thought of joining him felt both thrilling and terrifying. I wasn't great at soccer—not like Sam—but something in his voice was magnetic, urging me forward. One step. Then another.

"Okay," I said finally, my voice soft but steady enough to surprise myself.

Sam grinned, his whole face lighting up as he kicked the ball gently toward me. It rolled to a stop at my feet, and I awkwardly nudged it forward, trying to mimic the ease with which he controlled it.

"Not bad," he said, his grin widening. "Here, try this."

He jogged over and showed me how to balance the ball on my foot and flick it into the air. The ball wobbled and rolled away the first few times, but he only laughed, the sound light and unbothered, like the mistakes didn't matter.

"You're getting it," he said after my fifth attempt, his tone full of encouragement that made me want to keep trying. "Just keep your foot steady, like this."

He demonstrated again, slower this time, his movements precise. I nodded, focusing hard on the ball, determined to prove to myself that I could do it. When I finally managed to flick it into the air, even if just barely, a thrill shot through me.

"See? Told you!" Sam said, clapping his hands together in mock applause.

As I practiced, over and over, I felt something inside me start to shift. The tight knot of restlessness in my chest loosened, just a little, like a window cracked open to let in fresh air.

From under the oak tree, Lily's voice floated toward us. "Emily! Do you want to draw with me?"

I glanced over at her, wiping my hands on my jeans as the soccer ball rolled to a stop. She held up a piece of paper, waving it enthusiastically. The drawing—a cat wearing a rainbow coat—was as colorful as it was endearing. Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she beckoned me over.

"Maybe," I said, walking toward her and sinking into the soft grass beside her.

She beamed, thrusting the drawing closer. "Look! It's a rainbow cat. Isn't it cute?"

I studied it, the messy but vibrant lines blending into a kaleidoscope of color. "It's nice," I said, a small smile tugging at my lips despite myself.

Lily handed me a blank sheet of paper and a bright blue marker. "Here," she said, her tone matter-of-fact. "You can draw anything you want. Even if it's just doodles."

I hesitated, the marker hovering awkwardly in my hand. My mind felt blank, like it had been wiped clean of all ideas. But Lily's expectant gaze was impossible to resist. Slowly, I pressed the marker to the paper, sketching random shapes—a star, a tree, a bird. My lines were jagged and uneven, but Lily nodded approvingly, her pigtails bouncing with every movement.

"That's good! You should color it in next," she said, her hands already sifting through her markers to find the perfect colors to share.

As we sat there, the sun filtering through the leaves above us, I felt the heaviness that had clung to me all morning begin to melt away. It wasn't gone entirely, but it felt lighter, like a balloon tethered to my wrist, swaying gently in the breeze.

And in that moment, surrounded by Lily's vibrant imagination and Sam's easy laughter, I felt something new bloom inside me—a quiet, fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, the world could feel bright again.

By the time Mrs. Blake called us inside for dinner, I'd started to feel a little more comfortable. Sam and Lily's energy was hard to resist, and their acceptance felt genuine. At first, I'd stayed on the sidelines, unsure of where I fit into their boisterous games, but slowly, they'd drawn me in with their unfiltered joy. Sam's laugh was infectious, like the peal of a bell echoing across a quiet meadow, and Lily's determined cheerfulness could melt even the thickest walls.

"Dinner's ready! Wash up!" Mrs. Blake called from the porch, her voice ringing out over the cooling twilight.

Sam and Lily bolted for the sink, jostling each other and bickering over who would get to use the soap first. Lily clutched the bar like a prize, holding it just out of Sam's reach, while he lunged dramatically, pleading for mercy. I lingered back, unsure if I should join the fray or wait my turn. Mrs. Blake noticed my hesitation and stepped closer, her warm smile like the light that peeks through cracks in a shuttered room.

"Don't worry, Emily. There's plenty of soap to go around," she said, her hand briefly resting on my shoulder, grounding me.

I smiled back tentatively and took a step forward. Sam, ever the performer, handed me the soap with an exaggerated bow that would've done a court jester proud.

"Your turn, m'lady," he declared in a mock-serious tone, earning a giggle from Lily.

"Thanks," I replied, trying to stifle my own laugh but failing. It was the kind of silliness I hadn't realized I'd missed until now.

Inside, the dining room glowed softly under the hanging lamp, its golden light bouncing off the mismatched plates and the slightly worn edges of the wooden table. The scene was cozy, the kind of warmth that wasn't in the furniture but in the people. A pitcher of lemonade sat at the center of the table, beads of condensation tracing lazy paths down its sides. The smell of baked chicken and roasted vegetables wrapped around me like a comforting blanket, and my stomach growled, loud enough that Sam raised an eyebrow at me, grinning.

"Everyone sit down," Mrs. Blake instructed, her tone gentle but firm as she placed a steaming casserole dish in the center of the table. "Lily, can you grab the napkins? Sam, the cups, please."

Lily darted to the drawer, pulling out a stack of brightly colored napkins that looked like they'd seen their share of family dinners. Sam, meanwhile, grabbed an eclectic mix of glasses, each one with its own personality—some tall and plain, others adorned with fading patterns. I hesitated, unsure of where I fit in this well-rehearsed dance of chores, but Mrs. Blake caught my eye and offered me a lifeline.

"Emily, would you pour the lemonade?" she asked, her voice kind.

"Sure," I said, stepping toward the pitcher. My hands trembled slightly as I lifted it, but the task was a simple one, grounding me in the moment. The lemonade sparkled as it poured, tiny bubbles catching the light, and I felt a small sense of accomplishment as I filled each glass without spilling a drop.

When we all settled at the table, the chatter began almost immediately, a lively hum that filled the space like music. Sam and Lily took turns recounting stories from the afternoon, their voices overlapping in their eagerness.

"Emily's pretty good at soccer," Sam said between bites of chicken. "She almost balanced the ball on her foot."

"Almost?" I challenged, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Okay, fine," he admitted with a laugh. "You did it. For like three seconds. But still, that's good!"

Lily chimed in, holding up a crumpled piece of paper with my earlier sketch of a starry night. "And she's really good at drawing! Look what she made!"

Mrs. Blake leaned closer to examine the drawing, her eyes lighting up with genuine admiration. "That's beautiful, Emily. You have such a talent."

"She could teach me how to draw like that!" Lily exclaimed, clutching the paper like a prized possession. "Could you? Please?"

"Maybe," I said, ducking my head as heat rose to my cheeks. A small smile tugged at my lips, unbidden but welcome.

The conversation took a quieter turn as Sam's curious eyes settled on me. "Hey, Emily," he asked, his voice tinged with the kind of sincerity only kids can muster. "Why do you like stars so much?"

The question caught me off guard, and for a moment, I didn't know what to say. All eyes were on me, their anticipation palpable. Finally, I found the words.

"They're... quiet," I said softly, tracing the edge of my plate with my finger. "And they're always there, even when you can't see them. It's like they're watching over you."

The room fell still for a moment, the kind of quiet that doesn't need to be filled. Mrs. Blake reached across the table and gently squeezed my hand, her touch full of unspoken understanding.

"That's beautiful, Emily," she said, her voice tender.

Sam nodded, his expression unusually thoughtful. "Yeah. That's cool. I never thought about stars like that."

The stillness broke as Sam launched into a wild story about a soccer game he'd played last summer, complete with exaggerated gestures and over-the-top sound effects. Lily interrupted with her own version, insisting that she had been the true hero that day. Laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep inside me, surprising in its ease.

When dinner was finished, Mrs. Blake stood and began clearing the table. "Lily, Sam, can you help with the dishes?"

"Sure, Mom," Lily said, hopping up immediately. Sam groaned theatrically but followed her to the sink, muttering something about "dish duty" under his breath.

I started to rise, wanting to help, but Mrs. Blake waved me back down. "You can help next time, Emily. Tonight, just relax."

I nodded, sinking back into my chair. My gaze drifted to the sketch Lily had left on the table. The stars I'd drawn seemed to twinkle back at me, little promises of hope in the quiet.

I woke up the next morning to a house that seemed to breathe differently. The air felt still, the kind of quiet that settles in after a storm has passed. Sam and Lily were already at school, their excited voices from the night before now just a fading memory in the walls. The absence of sound wrapped around me as I made my way to the kitchen.

Mrs. Blake stood at the sink, rinsing a coffee mug with the kind of slow, unhurried movements that made everything she did seem peaceful. She was humming, a tune I didn't recognize, soft and melodic. The sunlight streaming through the window caught in her hair, making her appear almost golden. I hesitated in the doorway, not wanting to disrupt her moment, but she noticed me anyway.

"Good morning, Emily," she said, glancing over her shoulder with a smile that made her eyes crinkle. "Did you sleep well?"

I nodded, though I wasn't sure if I had. My fingers curled around the edge of the counter as I stood there, feeling out of place in the silence. After the warmth and laughter of yesterday, this quiet felt strange. It reminded me too much of the kind of silence I knew well—the kind that came before things got bad.

"I was thinking," Mrs. Blake continued, drying her hands on a towel with practiced ease, "since you're home today, maybe you could help me out with a few things around the house? Nothing too big, just some light chores to keep busy."

The word hit me like a slap. Chores. My stomach twisted, and I couldn't breathe for a moment. A wave of memories crashed over me—mom's sharp voice barking orders, the sting of her anger when I wasn't fast enough or good enough, the endless list of things to do. My hands clenched into fists, nails biting into my palms as my chest tightened.

"Emily?" Mrs. Blake's voice was soft, but it jolted me out of the spiral. Her concern was written across her face now, her brow furrowed as she turned to face me fully.

I opened my mouth, but the words felt stuck, lodged behind the lump in my throat. "I... I don't..." I stammered, my voice breaking. Heat rushed to my cheeks as I looked away, my heart pounding like a drum.

Mrs. Blake set the towel down on the counter and stepped closer, her movements slow and deliberate, as if approaching a frightened animal. "It's okay," she said gently, her voice steady and calm. "You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. Let's sit down for a minute, okay?"

I didn't trust my voice to respond, so I nodded instead. She led me to the kitchen table, where the morning sunlight pooled across the polished wood. She poured two glasses of water, the sound of it soothing in its simplicity, and placed one in front of me before taking a seat across the table.

"Emily," she began, her voice warm and steady, "I'm sorry if I upset you. That wasn't my intention. Can you tell me what's on your mind?"

I stared at the glass, the cool condensation slick under my fingers as I traced lazy patterns on its surface. The words wouldn't come at first, but Mrs. Blake didn't rush me. She waited, patient and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world. Finally, I found my voice, though it came out in a whisper.

"Chores," I said, the word trembling on my tongue. "They... they make me think of... of before."

Mrs. Blake nodded slowly, her expression softening. "That makes sense," she said, her voice like a warm blanket. "Sometimes, things that seem small to other people can bring back big feelings for us. It's okay to feel that way. And you don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. I'm here to help you, not to pressure you."

Her words settled over me, easing the tightness in my chest. I risked a glance at her, and when our eyes met, I saw nothing but understanding and kindness. It was like a lifeline in rough waters.

"Thanks," I murmured, my voice shaky but sincere.

She smiled, and it lit up her whole face. "How about this? Instead of chores, we can do something together. Maybe bake cookies? Or sort through some books for the library donation?"

Cookies. The word carried a warmth that pushed away the lingering shadows. The thought of mixing dough and the smell of something sweet baking in the oven felt safe, almost comforting. I nodded slowly. "Cookies, maybe," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Her smile widened, bright and reassuring. "Great choice. Let's get started."

We stood and moved toward the counter, where Mrs. Blake began pulling out ingredients with the same steady calm she always seemed to carry. I watched her, my hands steadying as I reached for the mixing bowl.

We spent the morning in the kitchen, the soft light streaming through the window, catching the floating dust particles in its glow. Mrs. Blake guided me through the steps of baking with an unhurried calm that I wasn't used to. Her hands, steady and sure, moved over the mixing bowl, showing me the rhythm of blending ingredients. She explained each step in a soothing voice that felt like a warm blanket on a cold morning.

The scent of sugar and vanilla filled the room, blending with the faint tang of cinnamon we'd decided to sprinkle into some of the dough. My hands were clumsy at first, smudging flour across my face when I scratched an itch, but Mrs. Blake only chuckled softly. "That's the sign of a real baker," she teased. "A little mess never hurt anyone."

I giggled despite myself, feeling the smallest flicker of ease settle in my chest. Rolling out the dough, I focused on the way the rolling pin felt under my palms, the satisfying press of it smoothing the uneven lumps. Mrs. Blake didn't rush me, even when the clock ticked on. She seemed to understand that I needed this quiet space to just be.

When the cookies were done baking, their golden tops glistening from the sugar glaze, we pulled them out of the oven and placed them on a cooling rack. The kitchen was warm now, the heat of the oven mingling with the laughter we'd shared when one of my cookies turned out lopsided. "It gives it character," she said with a smile. "Every cookie tells a story."

We sat at the table with a plate of the warm cookies between us, the delicate crackle of their edges breaking as Mrs. Blake took a bite. Her eyes lit up, crinkling at the corners. "These are perfect," she said, her voice filled with genuine pride. "You're a natural baker, Emily."

A tiny smile tugged at my lips, shy but real. "Thanks," I murmured, the word slipping out more easily than it had in a long time. I took a bite of my cookie, savoring the sweetness that melted on my tongue.

As we sat there, the quiet hum of the kitchen surrounded us. The clink of our glasses of milk against the table, the soft sound of our chewing—it was simple, but it felt like a balm on a wound I didn't know how to heal. Mrs. Blake didn't ask questions or press me to talk more, and I was grateful for that. Instead, she simply shared the moment with me, her presence steady and warm, like the sunlight streaming in through the window.

When Sam and Lily came home from school that afternoon, the smell of freshly baked cookies still lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of vanilla. It wrapped around them like a warm hug as they opened the front door. Lily's nose wrinkled as she took a deep breath, her face lighting up almost instantly.

"Cookies!" she squealed, her ponytail bouncing as she darted toward the kitchen. Her sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as she came to a stop and stood on her tiptoes, craning her neck to get a better look at the plate on the counter. "Did you make these, Mom?"

Mrs. Blake, who had just finished wiping down the table, looked up from her task and smiled warmly. Her auburn hair glinted in the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. "Actually," she said, setting the dishcloth aside, "Emily did most of the work. I just helped a little."

Lily's wide-eyed gaze swung toward me, and her excitement only seemed to grow. "You made these? Can I have one? Please?" she asked, bouncing on her heels like she couldn't wait another second.

I hesitated for a moment, feeling the familiar twist of shyness tug at me, but then I nodded. "Sure."

Her face lit up even more—if that were possible—and she grabbed a cookie with both hands, like it was the most precious thing in the world. Sam, who had followed her into the kitchen at a more measured pace, wasted no time grabbing one for himself. He took a big bite, crumbs tumbling onto his shirt as he chewed with exaggerated delight.

"These are so good," he said, his words muffled by his full mouth. "Like, really good. You should make more tomorrow."

Lily, her cheeks bulging with her first bite, nodded enthusiastically, sending crumbs flying in every direction. "Yeah! We could help next time!" she chimed in, her words slightly garbled.

I couldn't help but laugh softly at their enthusiasm, even as I felt heat rising in my cheeks. I wasn't used to this much attention, especially the good kind. "Maybe," I said, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

Mrs. Blake's gentle touch on my shoulder caught me by surprise, but when I looked up, her green eyes were kind and full of pride. "You did a great job today, Emily. I'm proud of you," she said, her voice steady and sincere.

Her words settled in my chest, warm and comforting, like the sunlight filtering through the window. For a moment, the weight I often carried seemed lighter, and I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time—like I truly belonged.

Sam was already reaching for a second cookie, pausing only to ask, "So, what kind are these, anyway?"

"Chocolate chip," I replied softly. "With a little cinnamon."

"Cinnamon? That's why they taste so good!" Lily exclaimed, wiping her hands on her skirt. "It's like a hug in cookie form!"

Her comparison made me chuckle, the sound coming out more freely than I expected. "I guess so."

"Maybe tomorrow we can try peanut butter ones," Sam suggested, leaning against the counter with an air of importance. "Or oatmeal raisin. Those are Dad's favorite, right?"

Mrs. Blake laughed, her hand still resting gently on my shoulder. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Emily's cookies are pretty hard to top as is."

The praise made my cheeks warm again, but this time, I didn't mind. As the room filled with the sound of laughter and the clinking of glasses as Mrs. Blake poured milk, I realized that, for once, the house didn't feel quite so big and empty. It felt alive, full of warmth and possibilities.

That evening, as we sat in the living room, I noticed something odd. There was a TV in the corner, but it was turned off, a faint layer of dust on its screen. The room was warmly lit by a lamp with a floral shade, casting soft shadows that danced across the walls. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon. It was cozy. A far cry from the constant hum of electronics that filled the nights back home.

Sam was stretched out on the couch, completely absorbed in a comic book. His brows furrowed occasionally as he flipped a page, and every so often, he muttered something under his breath—probably mimicking the characters. Lily was sprawled on the rug, crayons scattered around her like a rainbow explosion, her tongue poking out in concentration as she worked on a drawing of what looked like a princess riding a dragon. Mrs. Blake sat in the armchair near the window, a thick recipe book in her lap, her glasses perched on her nose as she flipped the pages with slow deliberation.

I couldn't help but ask, "Why don't you watch TV?"

Mrs. Blake looked up, her eyes crinkling with a smile. "We decided a long time ago that we wanted to spend more time together as a family. Watching TV is fine now and then, but we try to focus on things that bring us closer, like reading or playing games or just talking. It helps us feel more connected."

Sam, without looking up from his comic, added, "Plus, it's way more fun to do stuff together. TV gets boring after a while."

Lily piped up, her voice high and earnest. "And when we do watch, it's always a movie night! With popcorn! Sam always picks action movies, but I like the ones with princesses and animals."

Mrs. Blake chuckled, shaking her head. "I think we can all agree that movie nights are special because they're not every night. They're something we look forward to."

I leaned back in the armchair I'd been sitting in, taking it all in. Their answers made me think. I'd never known a family to choose each other over the constant background noise of a screen. Back home, the TV was always on, because of Mom watching her soaps. Here, the quiet wasn't awkward or lonely. It was alive with the sound of Lily's crayons scratching across the paper, the occasional rustle of Sam's comic book, and the turning of pages in Mrs. Blake's recipe book.

"What are you reading?" I asked Mrs. Blake, pointing to the thick book in her lap.

She held it up with a small laugh. "It's a collection of old Southern recipes. I thought I'd try something new for dinner tomorrow. Maybe a pecan pie or a peach cobbler."

"Pecan pie!" Lily shouted excitedly, lifting her head from her drawing. "I can help, right, Mom?"

"Of course," Mrs. Blake said, reaching out to ruffle Lily's hair. "You're my little sous chef."

Sam groaned theatrically. "As long as she doesn't eat all the pecans again. Last time, there weren't enough for the pie!"

"I did not!" Lily protested, her cheeks flushing pink.

"Yes, you did," Sam teased, glancing at me with a conspiratorial grin. "She's a pecan thief."

Just as I started laughing, the door to the hallway creaked open, and Mr. Blake poked his head out. His hair was sticking up like he'd been wrestling with it, and he was wearing the most ridiculous expression—a cross-eyed, tongue-out face that looked like he was auditioning for a cartoon.

"Hey, what's all the racket out here?" he asked in an exaggeratedly grumpy voice, though his eyes twinkled with mischief. "Some of us are trying to work, you know!"

Lily gasped dramatically. "Dad! Your face looks broken!"

"Broken?!" he exclaimed, widening his eyes and sticking his tongue out even further. "Oh no! I knew I shouldn't have looked in the mirror today!"

Sam snorted so hard he almost fell off the couch. Lily rolled onto her back, giggling uncontrollably. Even Mrs. Blake shook her head, trying not to laugh as she said, "Matthew, don't you have work to do?"

"I do," he replied, already retreating back into his office. "But I just couldn't resist coming out here to see what all the hullabaloo was about." He poked his head out one last time, this time with his cheeks puffed out like a blowfish, and said in a mock-serious tone, "Carry on!"

The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, the room was silent. Then Sam burst out laughing again. "Did you see his face? He looked like a fish!"

Lily was still giggling as she clutched her stomach. "Dad's so weird."

Mrs. Blake sighed, shaking her head, though she was smiling. "You're all weird. Must be something in the water."

I couldn't stop grinning. That goofy interruption had turned an already warm moment into something unforgettable. As I sat there, listening to Lily's crayons scratch across the paper and Sam still chuckling to himself, I realized that maybe I could get used to this—a life filled with moments that actually mattered, even the silly ones.

The morning I returned to school after my suspension, I couldn't help but feel a knot of anxiety twisting in my stomach. Mrs. Blake had insisted I wear one of the new outfits she'd picked out for me: a simple pair of dark jeans and a lavender sweater that was soft against my skin. It felt strange, wearing something so clean and well-fitted to school, but it also gave me a flicker of confidence I hadn't felt in a long time.

She drove me to school which was really nice. The sound of the engine humming beneath the awkward silence. I stared out the window, watching streets pass by in a blur of gray pavement and overcast skies. The closer we got to the school, the tighter the knot in my stomach twisted.

When she pulled into the school parking lot, Mrs. Blake turned off the engine and looked at me. "You're going to be okay, Emily. Just remember to take it one step at a time. You don't have to do everything perfectly."

I nodded, clutching my backpack like it was a shield. "Thanks."

Her hand brushed over mine briefly. "You've got this."

I stepped out of the car before she could say anything else. The cold morning air bit at my cheeks as I made my way to the entrance. I didn't turn to look back at her; I wasn't sure if I wanted her to be watching me or not.

The school building loomed ahead, its brick walls and wide glass doors just as I remembered them. But today, everything felt sharper, heavier, like the air itself carried the weight of the stares I knew were waiting for me inside. The knot in my stomach tightened further.

Inside the building, the familiar scent of waxed floors and faintly sour cafeteria food hit me, and the low hum of student voices filled the hallways. I kept my eyes on the floor, avoiding the curious or judgmental glances I could feel darting in my direction. My footsteps echoed unnaturally loud in my ears as I made my way to the front office.

The secretary, looked up from her desk when I entered. Her smile was warm, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Good morning, Emily. Welcome back."

"Thanks," I mumbled, not meeting her gaze.

The principal's door was already open. Mr. Peterson stood in the doorway, his expression neutral but not unkind. "Come on in, Emily," he said, motioning for me to take a seat.

I sat stiffly in the chair across from his desk, my hands clasped tightly in my lap.

"Emily," he began, his tone measured, "I'm glad you're back. Before we let you head to class, I wanted to have a quick chat."

I nodded, focusing on the edge of his desk rather than his face.

"First, I want to remind you, what happened with Trevor was unacceptable. Violence is never the answer, no matter the circumstances. That said, I also understand that you were provoked. We've spoken to Trevor and his parents, and he's been warned about his behavior as well."

The mention of Trevor made my stomach churn. I nodded again, gripping my hands together so tightly my knuckles ached.

Mr. Peterson's voice softened. "If anything like this happens again, Emily, I need you to come to an adult right away. There are people here who want to help you, but we can't do that if we don't know what's going on. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," I murmured.

"Good." He slid a slip of paper across the desk toward me. "Here's your pass to class. Take it easy today, and if you need anything, my door is always open, unless it's closed."

I nodded one last time, grabbing the pass as I stood to leave. My heart felt like it was pounding in my throat.

As I stepped back into the hallway, the air felt heavier, the knot in my stomach pulling tighter with every step. The hallways were quieter now, most students already in their classrooms. The absence of chatter only made the sound of my sneakers against the tile floor seem louder, like it was echoing for everyone to hear.

I ducked into the nearest restroom and leaned against the sink, staring at my reflection. My face was pale, my eyes wide and uncertain. I turned on the faucet, letting the cold water run over my hands for a moment before splashing some on my face. The shock of it steadied me, just a little.

"You can do this," I whispered to myself, though my voice sounded small, even in the empty room.

Taking a deep breath, I adjusted the straps of my backpack and stepped out of the restroom. My legs felt like they weighed a ton as I moved toward my first class. The hallway stretched ahead, seeming impossibly long, each step closer to the classroom door feeling like a test I wasn't ready to face.

Walking down the hallway felt like stepping into a spotlight. The fluorescent lights above seemed harsher today, magnifying every glance and every whisper. It didn't take long for the murmurs to start.

"Isn't that the girl who punched Trevor?" one voice said, just loud enough for me to hear.

"She looks different. Nice clothes, huh?" another chimed in, dripping with surprise.

"Didn't know she could clean up like that," a third added, their tone somewhere between awe and skepticism.

I kept my head down, gripping the straps of my backpack tightly. My sneakers scuffed against the polished tile floor as I ignored the murmurs as best as I could. My face burned, but I pressed forward. All I wanted was to get to my classroom without incident.

When I reached the door, I slipped inside and found my seat quickly, keeping my eyes fixed on the desk in front of me. The classroom felt quieter than usual, and I was suddenly hyper-aware of Trevor sitting a few rows ahead. His hunched posture was new. He kept his head low, refusing to meet anyone's gaze, not even his usual group of friends who usually rallied around him like a pack of hyenas.

For the first time, I felt a strange sense of relief. Maybe he'd finally learned to leave me alone. Or maybe, just maybe, I'd taken away some of his power.

The morning dragged on in a blur of lectures and notes, but by the time lunch rolled around, I was ready to bolt for some fresh air. Instead, I found Jasmine waiting for me at our usual table near the back corner of the cafeteria. Her eyes lit up the moment she spotted me, and she hurried over with her tray.

"Hey, Emily!" she said, a wide grin spreading across her face. "I'm so glad you're back. How are you?"

I shrugged, poking at the sandwich Mrs. Blake had packed for me. It was neatly wrapped in wax paper, much better than not having anything. "I'm okay," I mumbled.

Jasmine leaned in closer, her voice dropping as she glanced around the cafeteria. "Why did you do it? The whole school's been talking about it. I mean, I get why, but still..."

I sighed, setting the sandwich down. The memory of that day bubbled up in my chest like soda fizz, bitter and sharp. "I just... I couldn't take it anymore. He wouldn't stop. It was like... like he wanted me to break."

Jasmine nodded, her expression serious. "Yeah, he's awful. But you really scared him, you know? He hasn't said a word about you since it happened. It's like he's afraid of you now."

"Good," I muttered, surprising myself with the venom in my voice.

Jasmine gave me a small smile. "Well, I'm just glad you're okay. And by the way, you look really nice today. New clothes?"

"Yeah," I said, glancing down at the soft, lavender sweater I was wearing. It was simple but warm and much nicer than anything I used to own. "Mrs. Blake got them for me."

"She's your foster mom, right? She sounds awesome."

I nodded, a tiny smile tugging at my lips. "She is. The Blakes are all really nice. There's Mrs. Blake, her husband, and their two kids, Sam and Lily. It's... different, but in a good way."

Jasmine's eyes widened. "Wow. That's a lot to go through. Are they treating you okay?"

"They're great," I said quickly, meaning it. "It's kind of weird being in a house that's so... normal. Mrs. Blake even packs my lunch every day. She folds the laundry. She actually listens when I talk. It's... new."

Jasmine reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "You deserve that, Emily."

The cafeteria buzzed around us as we talked, and slowly, I started to notice more glances coming my way. A few other students came by, offering shy compliments about my outfit or asking how I was doing. It was strange being noticed for something other than being the quiet girl who smelled like old clothes.

The real test came during gym class. The locker room was a cacophony of laughter and chatter, the sharp smell of body spray mixing with damp air. I kept my head down, moving quickly to my locker. Around me, the other girls seemed so at ease, their voices rising and falling in waves of jokes and gossip. I envied their effortless confidence. My hands trembled slightly as I pulled on my gym clothes, the fabric unfamiliar but comforting in its fit.

When I stepped into the gym, the air shifted—cooler, but heavy with the smell of polished wood, old sweat, and faint traces of cleaning chemicals. The sound of sneakers squeaking against the floor echoed in the vast space, mingling with the distant hum of the ventilation system. My eyes scanned the room, automatically searching for Trevor. He stood on the far side of the gym, leaning casually against the bleachers with a small group of friends. His body language was relaxed, but the moment his eyes met mine, his posture stiffened. It was only a split second before he looked away, but it felt like an eternity.

"Alright, everyone!" The gym teacher's voice boomed, followed by the sharp blast of a whistle. They had the kind of presence that demanded attention, with a no-nonsense tone that carried over the din of the gym. "Today, we're playing basketball. Let's split into teams."

I swallowed hard, nerves bubbling in my chest as everyone moved into groups. The room was alive with shouts of names and hands raised to volunteer. I ended up on a team with Jasmine, which was a small mercy. She shot me a quick, encouraging smile as we lined up on the court. Her warmth felt like an anchor, grounding me in the chaos.

The game started fast, the ball a blur of motion as it bounced from player to player. My strategy was simple: stay out of the way. I moved cautiously, focusing on passing the ball whenever it came to me and dodging the more aggressive players. Trevor was on the opposing team. At first, I braced myself for his usual snide remarks or sly smirks, but they never came. He avoided me, barely even glancing in my direction. Instead, his expression was closed off, his movements efficient but devoid of his usual swagger. It was unsettling, like hearing a song without its melody.

"Nice pass!" Jasmine called out, her voice cutting through the din. I glanced over and saw her giving me a thumbs-up before sprinting back into the fray. Her encouragement was a lifeline, and I clung to it.

During a break, she jogged over, her face flushed but smiling. "You're doing great," she said, handing me a water bottle.

"Thanks," I murmured, taking a grateful sip. The cold water was a welcome relief against the heat building inside me, both from exertion and from the pressure of being watched—if not by Trevor, then by the others.

The rest of the game passed without incident. When the final whistle blew, I couldn't help but feel a small swell of pride. I hadn't been spectacular, but I hadn't messed up, either. For someone who usually dreaded gym class, that felt like a victory.

Back in the locker room, the air was thick with post-game chatter. I changed quickly, avoiding eye contact as the other girls recounted plays and laughed about near-misses. At the mirror, I caught my reflection as I pulled on my shirt. The girl looking back at me seemed...different. It wasn't just the clothes, though they helped. It was something in the way I stood, the way my shoulders weren't hunched quite as much. I looked...steadier.

As I walked out of the locker room and into the crowded hallway, the noise and chaos seemed a little less overwhelming. Trevor passed by, his friends flanking him like always. He didn't look at me, and I didn't try to catch his eye. There was no confrontation, no dramatic showdown—just the quiet realization that I was stronger than I'd thought.

After school, Mrs. Blake was already waiting in the parking lot, leaning against her car with a warm smile that immediately eased some of the tension I'd been carrying all day. The sun was low in the sky, its golden light spilling across the asphalt and making the day feel softer somehow, less overwhelming.

"Hey there, Emily," she called out as I approached. "How was it?"

I shrugged, clutching the straps of my backpack tightly. "It was okay. Better than I thought it would be."

She studied me for a moment, her sharp but kind eyes catching something in my expression that I didn't know was there. "That's good to hear. First days can be tough, but you got through it."

"Yeah," I murmured, climbing into the passenger seat as she opened the door for me.

The drive home was quiet at first, but not uncomfortably so. The hum of the engine and the rhythmic turn of the tires against the road were soothing, like a gentle reminder that I was on my way back to somewhere safe. Mrs. Blake let me sit in the silence, glancing over occasionally as though checking to make sure I was okay.

"Jasmine asked a lot of questions," I finally admitted, staring out the window as we passed rows of houses, their windows glowing warmly in the evening light.

Mrs. Blake didn't look surprised. "Kids are curiousWhat kind of questions?"

"Just... stuff."

"That's fair," she said thoughtfully.

Her words settled over me like a blanket, reassuring and steady.

When we made it back to the house, I was tired. Mrs. Blake unlocked the door and stepped inside ahead of me, her voice calling out cheerfully, "We're home!"

Sam and Lily came barreling into the hallway, their excitement filling the space like sunlight.

"Emily!" Lily squealed, throwing her arms around me. "How was it? Did you have fun?

"It was... fine," I said with a small smile.

Sam grinned, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets.

Mrs. Blake called from the kitchen, "Dinner's almost ready. Go wash up, everyone."

I nodded and headed to my room, the familiar comfort of it wrapping around me as I stepped inside. The bed was neatly made, the quilt smoothed out just the way I liked it, and the little desk by the window caught the last rays of sunlight. It was beginning to feel like my space—like home.

As I changed out of my school clothes, I caught my reflection in the mirror. The girl looking back still startled me sometimes, but this time was different. She looked like someone who was starting to believe she belonged somewhere, like someone who was learning how to be okay with herself.

By the time I joined the family at the dinner table, the scent of roasted chicken and buttery mashed potatoes filled the air. Sam was animatedly telling a story about something funny that had happened to him at school, and Lily was giggling so hard she could barely breathe.

The chatter and laughter swirled around me as I took my seat, and for a moment, I just let myself soak it in—the warmth, the joy, the feeling of not being alone anymore. This house, these people—they weren't just my foster family. They were becoming family.

And for the first time, that word—home—didn't feel so far away.

When I got home from school the next day, the air felt lighter somehow, as though someone had thrown open a window to let out all the tension that used to linger there. The usual weight pressing on my chest when I crossed the threshold was gone, replaced by a warmth I hadn’t felt in a long time. The aroma of something sweet baking in the kitchen wafted through the air, mingling with the faint, joyous sound of Sam’s laughter drifting from the backyard.

Mrs. Blake was the first to greet me at the door, her kind eyes crinkling as she offered her usual smile. “Hi, Emily. How was school today?”

“Not bad,” I replied, setting my bag down carefully by the door. The smell of fresh cinnamon rolls—or was it cookies?—tickled my nose, and my stomach gave an appreciative growl.

“That’s good to hear,” she said, smoothing her apron absently. “Sam’s out in the backyard with a ball. He’s been waiting for you, you know.”

“Waiting for me?” I asked, a little surprised.

“He’s been practicing his soccer moves and said he wanted someone to play with.” She paused, glancing at me in a way that felt both gentle and knowing. “I told him you might need some time to settle in first, but I think he’ll be happy to see you.”

I nodded slowly, my nerves replaced by a flicker of curiosity. The idea of playing with Sam didn’t seem as intimidating as it might have felt before. After changing out of my school shoes, I grabbed a glass of water and wandered outside.

The sun hung low in the sky, painting everything in warm golds and soft shadows. Sam was in the middle of the yard, completely absorbed in the soccer ball at his feet. He was practicing some kind of trick, flicking the ball into the air and catching it deftly on his knee before letting it roll back down. His focus broke when he noticed me, and his face lit up like a firework.

“Emily! Want to play?”

I hesitated, old insecurities rearing their heads, but his excitement was so genuine, so infectious, that I found myself nodding. “Sure.”

Sam’s grin widened as he tapped the ball in my direction. “It’s easy, just give it a kick!”

The ball rolled toward me, its path uncertain over the uneven grass. I stopped it with my foot and gave it a tentative nudge back to him. The look on his face—an exaggerated nod of approval—made me laugh despite myself.

“See? You’re already a natural,” he teased.

For the next few minutes, we passed the ball back and forth. Sam wasn’t just playing; he was teaching. “Try to keep your toes pointed down when you kick,” he said. “That’ll give you more control.”

I tried, and my kick sent the ball flying straight toward him. He stopped it effortlessly and sent it back with a flick of his foot.

“That was way better!” he encouraged. “You’ve got it now!”

The rhythm of the game settled in, and so did I. With every pass, I felt more at ease, the awkwardness falling away like dried leaves. Before long, I found myself smiling, genuinely smiling, as Sam cheered me on with each decent kick.

“You’re getting good at this,” he said after I managed to send the ball between two trees we were using as makeshift goalposts. His voice was full of admiration, like I’d just scored in a real match. “We should totally play a real game sometime. Maybe even get Mrs. Blake to referee.”

“Maybe,” I said, laughing as I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead. “But only if you go easy on me.”

Sam shook his head dramatically. “No way! You’re too good for that now. Besides, I bet you’d surprise yourself.”

The game continued until the sky turned a deeper shade of orange, the first stars peeking out from their hiding places. Sam eventually flopped onto the grass, breathless and grinning. I joined him, lying back and letting the coolness of the ground seep through my shirt.

“Thanks for playing,” Sam said after a while, his voice softer now. “I mean it. I’ve been practicing alone for so long, and it’s just way more fun with someone else.”

“Yeah,” I admitted, staring up at the sky. “It was fun.”

Mrs. Blake called us in for dinner. The warm glow of the dining room light spilled through the doorway, a beacon against the gathering twilight outside. Inside, the table was already set, each plate and glass arranged with care. The scent of baked casserole—cheesy, hearty, and inviting—filled the room, mingling with the faint aroma of fresh-baked bread. Lily was chattering away about her day at school as Mr. Blake carried over a steaming casserole dish, the edges still bubbling.

Dinner was the same as it had been the past few nights: warm, lively, and filled with the kind of chatter that made me feel included, even when I didn’t say much. Lily recounted a story about her teacher's "hilarious mistake" that made everyone laugh, and Sam added his sarcastic commentary, earning groans from his sister and a chuckle from their dad. Mrs. Blake shared little snippets of her day, asking questions about ours, her tone effortlessly balancing curiosity and care.

I mostly listened, letting their voices wash over me. But when Mr. Blake asked me how my day had gone, I stumbled through a short answer, mentioning the walk I’d taken down the trail by the creek. To my surprise, they seemed genuinely interested, asking if I’d seen any wildlife or heard the birdsong that Mrs. Blake said she always loved. Their attention made me feel both shy and oddly important, like my words mattered.

When dinner ended, chairs scraped softly against the floor as everyone started to get up from the table. Sam and Lily carried their plates to the sink, their conversation turning to a board game they wanted to play later. Mrs. Blake began tidying up, moving with the kind of efficient grace that only comes from years of practice. I sat there for a moment, watching them. It was such a simple scene, but there was something about it—about the ease with which they all moved together, the unspoken rhythm of a family.

Without really thinking, I stood up and grabbed my plate, the motion feeling instinctive even though it wasn’t something I’d done much before.

“Emily, you don’t have to,” Mrs. Blake said gently as I carried it to the sink. Her voice wasn’t chastising, just kind, as if she didn’t want me to feel obligated.

“I want to,” I said, my voice quiet but firm. My hands hovered over the faucet for a moment before I turned on the water, watching the stream cascade over the plates. The sound of it rushing over the dishes was oddly soothing, and I focused on the way the soap bubbled and swirled.

Sam and Lily exchanged surprised looks, but neither said anything. Maybe they thought I didn’t notice, but I did, and for a fleeting second, I worried I’d done something wrong. Mrs. Blake, standing nearby with a dishrag in her hand, smiled warmly.

“Thank you, Emily. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

I nodded, concentrating on the dishes. The task wasn’t as daunting as I’d expected. It felt different here—almost safe—not like it had been before. I could still hear Lily’s chatter in the background and the occasional teasing remark from Sam, but none of it felt sharp or cutting. It was playful, familiar, like they’d learned how to navigate each other’s edges without ever crossing them.

By the time I’d finished, I felt a small sense of accomplishment, my chest lighter than it had been all day. “You did a great job,” Mrs. Blake said as she wiped down the counter. “Thank you for helping.”

“It’s nothing,” I said, shrugging. But deep down, it didn’t feel like nothing. It felt like a step forward.

Later that night, I went to my room, the house quiet now except for the muffled sounds of the TV in the living room. The walls glowed faintly with the soft golden light from my bedside lamp. I pulled the blanket around me, thinking about the day. Playing ball with Sam, listening to Lily’s endless stories, helping with the dishes—it all felt new and a little strange, but in the best way possible.

I sat at my desk with my homework spread out in front of me. Math problems, history notes, and an English assignment stared back at me, each demanding my attention. The clutter of papers and books felt as overwhelming as the thoughts racing through my head. It had been a while since I’d truly focused on schoolwork. The weight of falling behind during my suspension loomed over me like a dark cloud. But then I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and reminded myself that I didn’t have to finish everything in one go. One thing at a time, I told myself.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. Mrs. Blake poked her head into the room, her gentle smile radiating calmness. “How’s it going, Emily?” she asked, stepping inside. She carried with her that quiet, reassuring presence that always made me feel like I wasn’t in this alone.

“It’s okay,” I said, my voice uncertain as I glanced at the mess of assignments. “Just trying to figure out where to start.”

Mrs. Blake entered fully and perched on the edge of my bed, folding her hands in her lap. Her gaze swept across the papers. “Math first?” she suggested. “Sometimes it helps to get the tougher stuff out of the way.”

I hesitated but eventually nodded. She had a point. Math had always been my Achilles’ heel, and leaving it for last usually meant it didn’t get done at all. I picked up my pencil and pulled the math worksheet closer. The first problem was about fractions, one of those topics that had always felt like a foreign language to me. My brow furrowed as I tried to piece together the steps I vaguely remembered from class.

Mrs. Blake didn’t say much as I worked, but she stayed nearby, her presence steady and comforting. I erased and re-wrote the first problem at least three times before I finally got the answer. I glanced at her, unsure if I’d done it right.

She leaned over, her eyes scanning my work. “That looks great,” she said, her voice filled with genuine encouragement. “You’re doing a good job, Emily. Just take your time.”

Her words were simple, but they meant more than she probably realized. I felt a small flicker of confidence—a rare and fragile thing these days. I moved on to the next problem, working through each one with a mix of determination and cautious optimism. By the time I reached the last question, I wasn’t second-guessing myself as much. When I finally set my pencil down, a small but undeniable sense of accomplishment settled in my chest.

“Done with math?” Mrs. Blake asked, her tone light but proud.

I nodded, unable to hide a small smile. “Yeah. That wasn’t as bad as I thought.”

“See? You’ve got this,” she said, giving me a quick pat on the shoulder before heading out of the room. “I’ll bring you a glass of water in a bit. Keep going—you’re on a roll.”

Feeling a bit more confident, I turned to my history notes. The assignment was to summarize a chapter about early civilizations. History wasn’t my favorite subject, but I’d missed several classes recently, and the gaps in my knowledge made me nervous. I opened the textbook, its stiff pages creaking faintly, and began reading.

The chapter turned out to be more interesting than I expected. It talked about the ancient Sumerians and their inventions—writing, irrigation, and laws. As I jotted down notes, I found myself surprisingly absorbed. The idea of a civilization rising from nothing, creating systems and structures that lasted for thousands of years, felt oddly inspiring. It reminded me that even when things felt broken or lost, they could be rebuilt.

Mrs. Blake returned with a glass of water, setting it on the desk beside me. “How’s history treating you?” she asked, peeking at my notes.

“It’s actually kind of cool,” I admitted, a little surprised at my own words. “Did you know they invented writing? Like, the first writing ever?”

Mrs. Blake smiled, clearly pleased to see my enthusiasm. “That’s amazing, isn’t it? They left a mark on the world, just like you will one day.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that, but her words lingered in my mind as I finished the history summary. When it was done, I moved on to the English assignment—writing a paragraph about a favorite book or story. I stared at the blank paper for a long moment, the question stirring memories I hadn’t revisited in a while.

Finally, I began writing about a novel I’d read years ago. It was about a girl who found her strength in unexpected places, despite the challenges she faced. As I wrote, I realized how much that story had meant to me back then—and how much it still did. It wasn’t just a story about strength; it was a story about hope, about finding a way forward even when the odds seemed impossible.

By the time I finished, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the room in the soft, warm glow of my desk lamp. I leaned back in my chair and stretched, the tension in my shoulders easing for the first time all day.

Mrs. Blake appeared again, her timing impeccable. “Finished?” she asked, her eyes bright with encouragement.

I nodded, a sense of pride swelling in my chest. “Yeah. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” she said warmly. “You’ve worked hard today. Why don’t you take a break?”

As I tidied up my papers and put them back into my backpack, a realization dawned on me. For the first time in a long time, school didn’t feel like a burden. It felt like a chance—a way to move forward, step by step, in this new chapter of my life.

It's been a week since my suspension and I'm glad I made it through without an incident. The day began like any other, a routine that was starting to feel almost normal. I walked into school wearing my new clothes—jeans that actually fit right and a crisp white shirt Mrs. Blake had ironed for me the night before. I held my head a little higher than before, even if my stomach still fluttered with nerves.

Classes passed uneventfully. I focused on my work, keeping my head down, but in history class, something strange happened: I raised my hand. When the teacher called on me, I answered correctly about the causes of the Civil War. My cheeks flushed when I heard a murmur of approval from a couple of classmates.

It wasn't until the afternoon, just before the final period, that the day took a turn. I headed to the bathroom, clutching my notebook tightly. I'd been hoping to avoid the crowded hallways, which always felt too loud and too suffocating. The door creaked as I pushed it open, and the sound of laughter and chatter met me.

Inside stood a group of girls, huddled around the sink. They were laughing in that easy, carefree way that made it seem like nothing in the world could touch them. When I stepped in, they all stopped talking and turned to look at me.

"Hey, you're Emily, right?" one of them said, stepping forward. She had dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, and there was something about the way she carried herself—confident, like she belonged everywhere she went.

"Yeah," I said, feeling flattered and nervous all at once.

"I've seen you around," she said. "I'm Tasha. These are my friends, Mia and Lexi."

The other girls nodded, giving me small, friendly waves. Tasha's gaze lingered on me, and I felt my face heat up.

"You seem cool," Tasha said. "We were just hanging out. Want to join us?"

The way they smiled at me was disarming, and for a moment, I didn't know what to say. It wasn't often that I got invited into anything, much less something like this. I nodded, leaning against the sink and clutching my notebook like a shield.

The conversation flowed easily, though I felt like I was treading water, trying to keep up. They talked about classes, boys, and weekend plans, their voices overlapping with easy familiarity. I chimed in here and there, hesitant at first, but then more confidently when Tasha laughed at one of my jokes about Mr. Yates's monotone lectures. The knot in my stomach loosened, and for a moment, I felt like I belonged.

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Tasha reached into her bag and pulled out a cigarette. She lit it with a flick of her lighter, the sharp smell of smoke filling the small bathroom. My stomach tightened as I watched her take a long drag before passing it to Mia.

The cigarette made its way around the circle. Each girl took a puff like it was no big deal, like it was something they did every day. When it landed back in Tasha's hand, she turned to me, holding it out with a sly smile.

"Want to try?" she asked.

My heart thudded painfully in my chest. I glanced at the cigarette, then back at Tasha's expectant face. "I don't know..." I stammered, trying to buy time. The room felt smaller, the smoke thicker, and the weight of their stares heavier than I could handle.

"Come on," Tasha urged. "It's not a big deal. Just one puff. Everyone does it."

The other girls giggled, their eyes fixed on me. I felt my palms grow clammy as I hesitated. The fear of being the odd one out gripped me tighter than my common sense. Slowly, almost without realizing what I was doing, I reached out and took the cigarette from Tasha's hand.

It felt foreign and wrong in my fingers. I stared at it, trying to steady my breathing. "What do I... how do I...?"

Lexi chuckled. "You just breathe in a little and then blow it out. Easy."

I brought the cigarette to my lips, my hand trembling. The room seemed to hold its breath along with me. I took the smallest drag, and immediately, the acrid smoke hit the back of my throat. I coughed violently, doubling over as tears sprang to my eyes. The girls burst into laughter, and Tasha clapped me on the back.

"Not bad for a first try," she said, grinning. "You'll get the hang of it."

I forced a weak smile, my throat still burning. I held the cigarette awkwardly, unsure of what to do with it next, when the door swung open with a loud creak.

Mrs. Harrison, one of the hall monitors, stood in the doorway. Her sharp eyes scanned the scene, taking in the girls, the smoke, and the cigarette still in my hand. My stomach dropped.

"Emily Saunders," she said, her voice cold and clipped. "What exactly is going on here?"

Panic surged through me. The other girls moved quickly, their hands darting to hide the other cigarettes behind their backs. Tasha leaned casually against the sink, as though nothing was out of the ordinary. But I stood frozen, my eyes wide and my hand still holding the evidence.

Mrs. Harrison stepped further into the bathroom, her eyes narrowing. "Put that out," she snapped, pointing to the cigarette in my hand. "Now."

My fingers fumbled as I dropped it into the sink, hastily running water over it. The sizzle of the extinguished ember echoed in the sudden silence.

"Everyone, out," Mrs. Harrison ordered, her gaze sweeping over the group. Her tone brooked no argument.

The other girls filed out quickly, murmuring apologies as they brushed past her. Tasha gave me a brief look—a mix of pity and amusement—before disappearing out the door. I stayed rooted to the spot, my stomach churning.

Mrs. Harrison didn't say anything for a long moment. Finally, she sighed, her expression softening just slightly. "Emily, what were you thinking?" she asked, her voice quieter now but still firm.

"I... I don't know," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. My throat felt tight, and I could feel tears threatening to spill over.

She shook her head. "come with me" she said.

The walk to the principal's office felt like a death march. My heart pounded in my chest, and my palms were slick with sweat as I followed the teacher down the hall. Every step seemed to echo, each one dragging me closer to the inevitable lecture I knew was coming. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a harsh glare that made the polished linoleum floor gleam like ice. It felt like the entire school was watching, even though the hallway was nearly empty.

When we reached the office, Mr. Peterson was already waiting. He stood by the door, his arms crossed, and his expression was a mix of disappointment and frustration. His neatly pressed suit and perfectly combed hair only made me feel more disheveled and out of place.

"Emily, come in," he said, his voice calm but firm. The kind of voice that didn't need to shout to make you feel small.

I stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind me. The room felt colder than it had the last time I was here, the faint smell of lemon cleaner lingering in the air. Mr. Peterson's desk was impeccably organized, with neatly stacked papers, a nameplate, and a small potted plant that looked as disciplined as he was. The chair across from him felt more like a throne of judgment than a place to sit, but I sank into it anyway, avoiding his gaze.

He settled into his own chair, folding his hands on the desk, and let the silence stretch for what felt like forever before he spoke. The ticking of the wall clock behind him filled the void, each second adding to the weight in my chest.

"Emily, I'm going to be honest with you. I'm very disappointed to see you here again so soon after your suspension. Can you explain what happened?"

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "I was in the bathroom, and some girls were there. They... they offered me a cigarette, and I..." My voice trailed off, the words sticking in my throat. Saying it out loud made it sound even worse, like I was trying to excuse something inexcusable.

Mr. Peterson sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Emily, I know you've been through a lot recently, but making choices like this is not the way to handle things. Smoking on school property is a serious violation of the rules, not to mention extremely unhealthy. Do you understand that?"

I nodded, my eyes fixed on the edge of his desk. "Yes, sir."

"And do you also understand the position this puts you in?" he continued. "You're already on thin ice after the incident with Trevor. This kind of behavior is only going to make things harder for you."

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I wiped them away quickly, hoping he wouldn't notice. "I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Mr. Peterson's expression softened slightly, a flicker of empathy breaking through his stern demeanor. "I believe you, Emily. But 'sorry' isn't enough. What matters is how you move forward from this. You need to make better decisions, not just for yourself but for the people who are trying to support you."

I nodded again, my throat too tight to speak. His words hit harder than I expected, each one a reminder of how much I was letting everyone down.

He tapped a pen against his desk, the rhythmic clicking filling the silence as he seemed to consider his next words carefully. "Here's what we're going to do. I'm not going to suspend you this time, but there will be consequences. You'll spend the rest of the week in after-school detention, and I want you to write a reflection about what happened today and how you plan to make better choices in the future. I'll expect it on my desk by Friday."

"Okay," I said quietly, relief and dread washing over me in equal measure. Detention wasn't as bad as suspension, but the thought of sitting in that silent room every day for a week felt like a heavy chain around my neck.

"And one more thing," he added, his tone shifting slightly. "I'll be reaching out to Mrs. Blake to let her know about this incident. She's been a strong advocate for you, and I think it's important she knows what's going on."

My stomach sank at the mention of Mrs. Blake. Disappointing her felt worse than anything Mr. Peterson could say. She had been one of the few people who believed in me when it felt like no one else did.

"Emily," Mr. Peterson said, his tone gentler now. "I know you're trying to figure things out, and I'm rooting for you. But you need to take responsibility for your actions. Can you do that?"

"Yes, sir," I said, finally meeting his eyes. The disappointment in them was hard to face, but there was also a glimmer of hope, like he was giving me one last chance.

He nodded and stood, signaling the end of our conversation. "All right. You can go now. Remember, detention starts tomorrow. Don't let me see you in here again for something like this."

"I won't," I promised, though the words felt hollow in the moment. They were just words, and I knew actions were what mattered.

As I left the office, my mind raced with thoughts of what Mrs. Blake would say when she found out. The sting of guilt was sharp, like a thorn pressing into my side, but beneath it was a small ember of determination. I had to do better. Not just for her, but for myself. Somewhere deep down, I knew this was my wake-up call, and I couldn't afford to ignore it.

---

"Every choice you make has a consequence, but it's how you rise from your mistakes that defines your character."

---

 

The ride home that afternoon was quiet, almost too quiet. Mrs. Blake hadn't said much since picking me up from school. Usually, her car was filled with the sound of her soft humming or the faint tinny tunes of the country station playing on the radio. But today, there was only silence, punctuated by the occasional creak of the car's suspension as we rolled over potholes. Her usual warm smile was absent, replaced by a calm but serious expression. It wasn't anger—no furrowed brows or pursed lips—but something heavier, like she was weighing every word she wanted to say. The silence felt oppressive, pressing down on me like a storm cloud that refused to break.

When we finally pulled into the driveway, Mrs. Blake put the car in park and turned to me. "Emily, let's go inside and talk," she said, her tone firm but not unkind.

My throat tightened, and I nodded, clutching my backpack as if it could shield me from whatever was coming next. The familiar sight of the house—the porch swing swaying gently in the breeze, the potted geraniums Mama had planted last spring—offered no comfort today. Everything felt different, tinged with the weight of what I had done.

Mrs. Blake motioned for me to sit at the kitchen table while she filled two glasses with water from the pitcher in the fridge. The soft clink of ice cubes falling into the glasses was the only sound in the room, and it seemed louder than it should have been.

She set the glasses on the table and slid one toward me before sitting down across from me. Her steady gaze met mine, and I immediately looked away, staring down at the wood grain of the table.

"Mr. Peterson called and told me about the incident today," she began, her voice even but laced with concern. "Emily, I'm not going to yell at you, but I do need to understand. Why did this happen?"

I bit my lip, the knot in my stomach tightening. My words came out shaky, barely above a whisper. "I... I was in the bathroom, and some girls were there. They offered me a cigarette, and I... I just didn't want them to think I was... weird. I wanted them to like me."

Mrs. Blake sighed, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands on the table. She was quiet for a moment, and the pause stretched long enough for my heartbeat to fill the silence. "Emily, I understand wanting to fit in. Everyone does. But smoking? That's not the way to go about it. Those girls weren't being your friends if they were pressuring you into doing something harmful."

Tears welled up in my eyes. The shame I'd been holding in all day came rushing to the surface. "I know. I'm sorry. I just... I didn't know what else to do."

She reached across the table, her hand warm and steady as it settled over mine. "I'm not mad at you, Emily. I'm worried. You've been through so much already, and I don't want you to feel like you have to hurt yourself to be accepted by anyone. You are worth so much more than that."

Her words struck something deep inside me, and I couldn't hold back anymore. The tears spilled over, and I buried my face in my hands. "I just wanted to belong," I whispered through the sobs.

Mrs. Blake squeezed my hand gently, her voice firm but full of compassion. "You do belong. Here. With us. With people who care about you for who you are, not what you do to fit in. Do you understand that?"

I nodded, wiping my face with my sleeve. "I'll do better. I promise."

She gave me a small, encouraging smile, the warmth returning to her eyes. "I know you will. But promises aren't enough, Emily. It's about making the right choices, even when it's hard. And you're not alone in this. I'm here to help you."

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The weight of the conversation hung between us, but it felt lighter now, like the air after a rainstorm. Finally, Mrs. Blake stood, her expression softening further. "How about this? You finish your homework while I start dinner. We'll put this behind us and focus on moving forward, okay?"

"Okay," I said quietly, feeling a flicker of hope despite the guilt still gnawing at me.

I pulled out my books and started working at the kitchen table. The familiar scratch of my pencil against paper was comforting in its own way, a rhythm that steadied my nerves. In the background, Mrs. Blake moved around the kitchen with practiced ease. The aroma of garlic and onions sizzling in a pan soon filled the air, mingling with the scent of fresh bread warming in the oven. It smelled like home—a reminder that no matter how far I strayed, this place was a safe harbor.

Every now and then, I'd glance up and catch Mrs. Blake's eye as she worked. She'd smile softly, and it was enough to remind me I wasn't facing this alone. Mistakes might trip me up, but I had people willing to catch me, to steady me when I wavered.

By the time dinner was ready, the tension in the room had melted away, replaced by a quiet sense of understanding. And as we sat down to eat, I couldn't help but feel grateful. Not just for the food or the roof over my head, but for the unwavering support of someone who saw me not as my mistakes but as someone worth believing in.

Dinner that evening was a lively affair for everyone but me. Mrs. Blake had made spaghetti and garlic bread, and the rich aroma of roasted garlic and tomato sauce filled the kitchen, mingling with the faint, sweet scent of basil. We all sat at the large wooden table that bore the scratches of years of family meals and laughter. The overhead light cast a warm glow, making the room feel cozy despite my detached mood.

Sam and Lily dove into their plates with enthusiasm, twirling spaghetti onto their forks with varying degrees of success. Lily's napkin was already speckled with sauce, and Sam had a noodle stuck to his chin that he hadn't noticed yet. Mr. Blake poured glasses of water for everyone, his hand steady as he passed one to Mrs. Blake before sitting down at the head of the table.

"So, how was everyone's day?" Mrs. Blake asked, her voice warm and inviting as she picked up her fork. Her smile was the kind that could brighten a cloudy day, but tonight, I couldn't feel its warmth.

Sam immediately launched into a story, practically bouncing in his seat. "I almost scored a goal during recess today!" he exclaimed, waving his fork in the air for emphasis. A stray noodle flopped off, landing back on his plate with a splat. "It was so close! If it weren't for the stupid goalie, I totally would've made it."

Lily giggled, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand despite Mrs. Blake's quick glance at the napkin by her plate. "That's because you're always trying to kick it too hard. You've gotta aim, Sam."

"I do aim," he retorted, rolling his eyes dramatically. "It's not my fault the goalie is like a brick wall."

Mrs. Blake chuckled, shaking her head as she reached for the bread basket. "Well, maybe next time, Sam. Keep practicing."

Lily's voice rose above the clatter of silverware as she leaned forward, nearly tipping her water glass in her excitement. "Oh! Oh! Guess what I did at school today?" she said, bouncing slightly in her chair.

"What did you do, Lily?" Mr. Blake asked, his eyes twinkling as he leaned in to listen, his elbows resting on the table. He always had a way of making her feel like the most important person in the room when she spoke.

"We had to make these big posters about animals," she said, her words tumbling out in a rush. "And I picked giraffes because they're the best animals ever!" Her face lit up as she continued, her cheeks flushed with excitement. "My poster had all these cool facts, like how giraffes only sleep for a few minutes at a time, and they have really long tongues for eating leaves."

Sam snorted, pausing mid-bite. "Long tongues? That's gross."

"It's not gross; it's awesome," Lily shot back, her eyes narrowing as she defended her beloved giraffes. "And I drew a huge giraffe on the poster. It took forever, but it was so good that Mrs. Taylor said I should put it in the hallway for everyone to see."

"That's amazing, Lily," Mrs. Blake said, her smile widening as she reached over to brush a strand of hair from Lily's face. "You must have worked really hard on it."

"I'd love to see it sometime," Mr. Blake added, nodding in approval.

Lily beamed, practically glowing with pride. "Everyone thought it was so cool," she said, her voice bubbling with joy. "Even Jacob said it was better than his poster, and he always thinks he's the best at everything."

Sam rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath about Jacob being annoying, but Lily ignored him, too caught up in her excitement. Mrs. Blake caught my eye for a moment and gave me a gentle, questioning look, but I just pushed a meatball around my plate in silence. The lively chatter swirled around me, warm and vibrant, but I felt like I was on the outside looking in.

As Sam and Lily bickered good-naturedly over giraffe tongues, Mrs. Blake nudged the bread basket toward me, her eyes soft with concern. "Emily, would you like some more garlic bread?" she asked gently.

I shook my head, mumbling a quiet, "No, thank you," and stared at my plate, hoping no one would press me further. The lively hum of family chatter carried on, but I couldn't shake the feeling of being somewhere far away, even though I was right there at the table.

Lily noticed something was wrong almost immediately. Her bright smile faltered, and she tilted her head, looking at me curiously. "Emily, are you okay?" she asked softly, her voice filled with concern.

All eyes at the table turned to me. My cheeks burned as I felt the weight of their stares, and I quickly nodded, pretending to focus on my plate of spaghetti. I poked at it with my fork, moving the noodles around but not eating. "I'm fine," I mumbled, my voice barely above a whisper.

Mrs. Blake's gaze lingered on me longer than anyone else's. She had a way of seeing right through people, and it made me squirm. Finally, she spoke, her tone as gentle as a warm hug. "It's been a tough day," she said, her words aimed at the whole table but clearly meant for me. "Sometimes we just need a little time to feel better. Right, Emily?"

I nodded, swallowing hard. "Yes, ma'am," I murmured, still not looking up.

But Lily wasn't so easily distracted. "What happened today, Emily?" she pressed, leaning closer across the table. Her voice wasn't nosy—just curious and sincere.

I hesitated, glancing down at my plate. "I... I got detention," I admitted quietly, my voice trembling just enough to betray how much it was bothering me.

"What's detention?" Lily asked, her head tilting in confusion. "Is it bad?"

I froze, the heat rising to my face again. My heart raced, and before I could stumble over an explanation, Mrs. Blake gently stepped in. "Don't worry about that, sweetheart," she said with a warm smile. "It's just something teachers do when kids need a little extra time to think about their choices. Emily's fine, and she doesn't need you fretting about it."

Lily looked unsure, but she nodded, satisfied enough for now. Once Mrs. Blake had moved on, Lily leaned closer to me, her voice a whisper. "I still think you're really nice," she said earnestly. "Even if you got a detention."

I couldn't help but laugh softly, a small, unexpected sound that broke through the sadness. "Thanks, Lily," I said, shaking my head at her sweetness. "That means a lot."

The conversation soon shifted back to Lily's poster project and Sam's soccer game, and I let their cheerful voices wash over me. The sadness in my chest hadn't gone away, but there was a small comfort in being surrounded by their warmth. Even though I stayed quiet, their presence was enough.

After dinner, as I carried plates to the sink, Lily appeared at my side again. She tugged on my sleeve, looking up at me with those same big, sincere eyes. "If you ever want to talk, Emily, I'm a really good listener," she said earnestly.

This time, a real smile tugged at my lips. It was small, but it felt genuine. "Thanks, Lily," I said softly.

She grinned, her whole face lighting up, and skipped off to the living room, leaving me standing there with a plate in my hands and a flicker of something warm in my chest. Maybe I wasn't ready to laugh and join in yet, but I wasn't alone. And for now, that was enough.

As I finished up the dishes, Mrs. Blake came back into the kitchen and gave me a knowing look. "You're going to be okay, Emily," she said quietly. "We all have tough days, but they don't last forever."

Her words settled over me like a soft blanket, offering a sense of comfort I hadn't realized I needed. I nodded, unable to speak, and turned back to the sink with a faint smile.

A few minutes later, Lily called from the living room. "Emily, come here!"

I dried my hands on a towel and followed her voice, the scent of dish soap still clinging to my fingers. The living room was warm and cozy, lit by the soft glow of the table lamp. Lily stood by the coffee table, holding a deck of cards with an air of determination. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, and her eyes sparkled like she was about to unveil some grand plan.

"We're playing Go Fish, and I need a partner," she announced, bouncing on her toes. "You'll be on my team!"

Before I could protest or even ask what was going on, she grabbed my hand and tugged me down onto the couch beside her. The cushion sank under our combined weight as Lily practically radiated energy. Across from us, Sam was already shuffling the cards with the skill of someone who had clearly played more than a few rounds. He glanced up at me, his expression hovering somewhere between curiosity and amusement. Without a word, he handed me a small stack of cards, the edges soft and worn from years of use.

I held the cards awkwardly, still caught in my own swirling thoughts. My chest felt heavy, like a stone had settled there and refused to move. At first, I played halfheartedly, going through the motions without much care for the outcome. But Lily's excitement was contagious. She nudged me gently with her elbow whenever I made a good move, her whispered commentary full of dramatic flair.

"We've got this, Emily," she murmured, as if sharing a secret. "We're gonna crush Sam like pancakes."

I raised an eyebrow at her. "Pancakes?"

She giggled. "Flat as a pancake! Isn't that what people say?"

"Not exactly," I said, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

By the time the game was halfway through, I found myself leaning into the moment. Lily's relentless optimism was impossible to ignore, and her laughter had a way of wrapping itself around me like a warm blanket. I started strategizing with her, matching her enthusiasm move for move. We shared triumphant grins whenever we scored a match, and her cheers grew louder with every victory.

When the final card was drawn, Lily leapt to her feet, throwing her arms into the air like we'd just won a championship. "We did it! We won!" she exclaimed, her voice echoing through the room.

I couldn't help but laugh at her enthusiasm. Sam shook his head, pretending to be exasperated, but the grin on his face betrayed him. "You're such a sore winner," he muttered, though his tone was light and teasing.

"I am not!" Lily shot back, crossing her arms in mock indignation. "You're just a sore loser."

"Am not."

"Are too!"

Their playful bickering dissolved into a fit of giggles, and before I knew it, I was laughing too. The sound bubbled up from my chest, surprising me with its intensity. For the first time all day, the weight in my chest felt lighter, like it was finally starting to lift.

Later, when it was time for bed, Lily wrapped me in a tight hug at my door. She squeezed me so hard that I could barely breathe, but I didn't mind. "You're my favorite teammate," she said, her voice muffled against my shoulder.

"Thanks, Lily," I said, squeezing her back just as tightly. "You're mine too."

The next day at school, I kept my head down and moved through my classes in silence. It was easier that way—avoiding the curious stares and whispers that seemed to cling to me like a shadow. The sound of chairs scraping against the floor, the hum of whispered conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter all blurred into the background as I focused on the patterns in the tile floor beneath my desk.

Teachers called on other students, their voices a distant echo. I was content to let the spotlight pass me by, the weight of their unspoken questions pressing down on me. My notebook sat open on my desk, blank except for the faint indentations of where I had absentmindedly pressed my pen too hard. I pretended to jot something down whenever a teacher's gaze lingered my way, but I doubted anyone really noticed.

When the lunch bell rang, I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The shuffle of students packing up and filing out was almost mechanical. I made my way to the cafeteria, keeping to the edges of the hall, where the crowd thinned. The smell of pizza, French fries, and something vaguely sweet hit me as I entered the bustling room, but it did little to stir my appetite. I slid into a corner seat, my usual spot in the back by the window, and pulled out the brown paper bag Mrs. Blake had packed for me.

The sandwich inside was neatly wrapped in wax paper, the edges folded with care. I unwrapped it slowly, more out of habit than hunger, and took a small bite. The taste of peanut butter and jelly was familiar, comforting in its simplicity, but even that felt distant today. My gaze drifted out the window, where the bare branches of a tree swayed in the cold wind.

"Hey, Emily," Jasmine's voice broke through my thoughts. She set her tray down across from me with a soft clatter and plopped into the seat, her usual bright smile in place. Her energy was like a burst of sunlight, cutting through the overcast haze of my mood. "How's it going?"

I shrugged, keeping my eyes on the table. "It's fine," I said, glancing at her briefly before returning to my sandwich. My voice sounded flat, even to me.

She tilted her head, her smile faltering just a little. "You've been really quiet lately. Everything okay?"

I hesitated, my fingers fiddling with the edge of the wax paper. How much could I say without opening a door I wasn't ready to walk through? Finally, I settled on a vague response. "Just... a lot on my mind."

Jasmine studied me for a moment, her brown eyes warm with concern. Then she nodded, her expression softening. "Well, if you ever want to talk, I'm here. Seriously."

"Thanks," I said softly, managing a small smile that felt foreign but not unwelcome.

Her grin returned, brighter than before. "So, guess what? I totally bombed that history quiz yesterday. Like, completely. I couldn't even remember who signed the Declaration of Independence. Isn't that, like, the easiest question ever?"

Despite myself, I chuckled, the sound surprising me. "That's pretty bad," I said, my voice a little lighter.

"I know, right?" she said, throwing her hands up dramatically. "But I'll make it up on the next one. Hopefully."

I shook my head, a faint smile lingering as her theatrics eased the tension in my chest. Jasmine had a way of making the world feel a little less heavy, her boundless energy filling the cracks where worry had settled.

The conversation drifted into easier territory after that. She talked about the upcoming basketball game, the new puppy her neighbors had gotten, and her plans for the weekend. I didn't say much, but I listened, the sound of her voice grounding me. For the first time in days, I felt a bit of the heaviness lift, like a window cracked open to let in fresh air.

Around us, the cafeteria buzzed with life: the clatter of trays, bursts of laughter, the hum of overlapping conversations. It all felt a little less overwhelming with Jasmine's chatter filling the space around us. A reminder that not everything had to be so serious, so overwhelming.

Later that afternoon, I headed to the bathroom during a break between classes. The hallways were quiet, the muffled chatter from distant classrooms filling the air. As I pushed open the bathroom door, the heavy smell of floral air freshener mixed with something bitter hit me. My steps faltered.

The girls from before were there, leaning against the sinks and chatting loudly. Their voices echoed against the tiled walls, amplified by the emptiness of the room. Tasha noticed me first. Her eyes gleamed with a kind of mischief that sent a shiver down my spine, and her lips curved into a sly grin.

"Emily," she said, her voice dripping with exaggerated sweetness as she waved me over. "Hey, girl! How's it going?"

For a moment, I considered turning around and leaving. But something about her tone—almost a dare—rooted me to the spot. I could feel their eyes on me, expectant and curious, as if they were testing how much I could take. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to step closer and offered a small nod. "Hi."

Mia, perched on the edge of the counter like she owned the place, smirked and pulled a cigarette from her pocket. She twirled it between her fingers, letting the movement catch my attention. "You want one?" she asked, holding it out toward me like she was offering a piece of gum instead of a lit fuse.

The room seemed to shrink around me. My stomach twisted, a sick knot forming as I stared at the cigarette. The memory of coughing, the sting in my throat, and the weight of Mr. Peterson's lecture hit me all at once. I could almost see Mrs. Blake's worried face, her soft voice asking, "Is everything okay, Emily?" The thought made my chest tighten.

"No," I said firmly, shaking my head before the hesitation could creep in. "I'm good."

Tasha raised an eyebrow, her grin faltering for a split second before she smoothed it over with a shrug. "Come on, it's no big deal. Just one puff. You're not scared, are you?" Her voice was light, but her words carried a weight that pressed against my chest.

My hands curled into fists at my sides, and I took a step back, planting my feet firmly on the cold tile floor. "I said no," I repeated, louder this time. My voice didn't shake, but my pulse roared in my ears.

The room went silent, the other girls exchanging looks. Mia rolled her eyes and leaned back against the mirror, letting her cigarette dangle from her fingers like it was a trophy. Tasha shrugged, breaking the quiet with a soft laugh. "Suit yourself," she said, lighting her own cigarette with practiced ease. The click of the lighter sounded sharp in the stillness. She took a long drag, blowing out a cloud of smoke that curled toward the ceiling. "Your loss."

I turned away, my movements stiff, and headed toward one of the stalls. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst out of my chest. Closing the stall door behind me, I sat down. My hands trembled, and I clenched them into my lap, breathing deeply to calm the storm inside me. The faint, acrid smell of smoke seeped into the stall, burning my nose and throat.

When I finally stood to wash my hands, I avoided their eyes. The mirror above the sink reflected their smirks and whispered comments, but I kept my gaze fixed on my trembling fingers as they scrubbed under the cold stream of water. The soap smelled faintly of lavender, and I clung to that small comfort.

The moment I stepped out of the bathroom, the cool air of the hallway hit me like a wave, washing away the heavy, smoky scent. I leaned against the wall for a second, pressing my hands to my chest and exhaling shakily. My legs felt wobbly, but I straightened and forced myself to keep moving.

With every step back to class, my heartbeat began to slow. The echo of their laughter still rang in my ears, but beneath it, a small flicker of pride warmed my chest. Saying no had been hard—harder than I wanted to admit—but I'd done it. It wasn't much, but it was a step in the right direction.

Detention that afternoon felt as heavy as the air before a storm. The room was small, its gray walls barren except for a faded bulletin board pinned with outdated announcements and a single clock on the wall that ticked far too loudly. Each second felt like a hammer against the quiet. Rows of empty desks stretched out before me, their metal legs scuffed and uneven, as though worn down by years of restless students. I slid into a seat near the back, dropping my bag onto the floor with a quiet thud that seemed to echo far too loudly in the silence.

Mrs. Turner, the teacher assigned to oversee detention, barely glanced up from her desk as I entered. She was an older woman with sharp features softened only slightly by the glasses perched precariously on the edge of her nose. A stack of papers sat in front of her, and she attacked them with a red pen, her movements brisk and methodical. It was clear she had little interest in what we were doing, so long as we stayed quiet.

A few other students shuffled in, their faces a mix of resignation and annoyance. Each slouched into a desk as though trying to disappear into the floor. No one spoke; the silence was thick and oppressive, like a weight pressing down on my chest. I pulled out a notebook and pen, the only tools I had to make it through the next hour, and opened to a blank page. Mr. Peterson's assignment stared back at me in my mind: "Write about what you did wrong and how you plan to make better choices in the future."

I muttered the words under my breath, mimicking his overly stern tone. "Write about what you did wrong and how you plan to make better choices in the future." It sounded simple, but putting it into words felt like trying to untangle a knot I didn't even know how to describe. The page stared back, cold and unyielding, daring me to begin.

After a long pause, I wrote the first sentence: Yesterday I made a mistake. The words felt small but true, a starting point. I tapped my pen against the desk, the sound a nervous rhythm as I tried to figure out what to say next. Slowly, the words began to come, each one pulled from the jumble of thoughts in my head. I wrote about the girls in the bathroom, about the way their laughter had felt like it could crush me if I didn't join in. I wrote about how hard it was to say no when everyone's eyes were on me, waiting, judging.

I wrote about Mrs. Blake's disappointment—the way her face had fallen when she'd found out what I'd done. That hurt more than any punishment, more than detention, more than anything. It was a feeling I never wanted to experience again. The words came slowly at first, but they gathered momentum, each sentence a small piece of the tangled mess in my head. By the time I finished, the page was full, my messy handwriting filling every line. I sat back, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

"Done already?" Mrs. Turner's voice startled me. I looked up to find her peering at me over her glasses, her sharp gaze softened by a flicker of curiosity.

"Uh, yeah," I said, holding up the notebook.

She nodded, her expression neutral again. "Good. Use the rest of the time wisely. Homework, reading, something productive."

"Okay," I murmured, tucking the notebook back into my bag.

The next half hour crawled by. I pulled out a math worksheet and tried to focus, but the numbers blurred together on the page, my thoughts wandering back to the bathroom and the choice I'd made to walk away. It had felt good in the moment, like breaking free from a trap I hadn't realized I'd stepped into. But it also left me with a hollow ache, a reminder of how much I wanted to belong somewhere. Maybe this wasn't the way to find it, but it didn't make the loneliness any easier.

The tick of the clock seemed louder with each passing minute, a relentless reminder of how slowly time moved when you were stuck. When the hands finally hit four, Mrs. Turner stood and dismissed us with a curt nod, her focus already back on her stack of papers. I gathered my things quickly, eager to escape the stifling room.

As I stepped out into the hallway, the cool air felt like a relief, washing away some of the weight that had settled on my shoulders. The school was quiet, the usual after-school buzz absent in the detention wing. My footsteps echoed as I made my way to the parking lot, where Mrs. Blake was waiting for me.

She waved when she saw me, her smile soft but steady. It wasn't the wide, easy grin she often wore, but it was enough to make the ache in my chest ease just a little.

"How was it?" she asked as I climbed into the passenger seat.

"Quiet," I said, staring out the window as she started the car. "I finished the reflection Mr. Peterson wanted."

"Good," she said, her voice calm and even. "Did it help?"

I thought about it for a moment, the weight of the day still pressing on me but feeling slightly less oppressive. "Yeah. A little."

She nodded, not pushing for more. The quiet between us was comfortable, a stark contrast to the silence in detention. As we drove home, I let myself sink into the moment, the tension slowly leaving my body. Today hadn't been easy, but it was a step forward, another chance to do better. And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Eighteen

The week that followed slipped by like leaves floating downstream—swift and quiet, each day blending into the next. Every morning began the same: the shrill buzz of my alarm clock jolting me awake, the muffled clatter of breakfast downstairs, and the routine walk to school where I kept my head down, blending into the background. Classes felt like it went by in a flash, my mind drifting as teachers droned on about algebra equations or the causes of wars I couldn't connect to. I stuck to the corners, my notebooks and the comfort of silence my only companions.

Detention each afternoon felt like a weight pressing on my chest, a quiet room filled with restless energy and a kind of unspoken judgment. Mrs. Turner sat at her desk, her presence both commanding and distant as she occasionally glanced up from her paperwork. She barely acknowledged us—no lectures, no scolding—just the soft scratching of her pen against paper. For that, I was grateful. It gave me time to breathe, even if the air felt heavy, and to focus on my assignments or the half-formed thoughts spilling into the margins of my notebook.

I stayed on the edges of everything, avoiding the girls in the bathroom and minimizing my interactions in the hallways. There was an odd comfort in being invisible, though it didn't stop the occasional whispers or lingering stares. I'd learned to shrug them off, or at least pretend I could.

Jasmine, as always, was the bright spot in my days. At lunch, she'd plop down beside me with a tray piled high, her chatter cutting through the dullness of the week. She'd complain about her history quiz, reenact funny moments with her little brother, or tease me about how "serious" I always looked. She had this way of making me feel lighter, like I could set the weight I carried down, even if only for a little while. By Thursday, I surprised myself when I laughed at one of her stories—a real laugh, not the forced kind I'd gotten used to.

At home, Mrs. Blake's steady presence remained a quiet comfort. She didn't pry or press about detention, but every evening, she'd ask, "How was your day?" in a tone that made it clear she cared. Sam and Lily carried on as usual, their laughter and bickering filling the house with a warmth I hadn't realized I'd missed. Lily, especially, seemed determined to crack the shell I'd built around myself. She'd tug at my sleeve to show off her latest crayon masterpieces, each drawing full of bright colors and wobbly lines, or share a story about her day with the kind of wide-eyed wonder only a little kid could have.

"I drew this for you," she said one evening, holding up a picture of what I assumed was supposed to be us—a taller stick figure with messy hair beside a smaller one with pigtails.

"It's beautiful," I told her, and for a moment, her grin made everything else fade away.

By Friday, the week's weight felt like it was finally lifting. As I sat through my last detention session, I found myself glancing at the clock more often than usual. The sound of the second hand ticking was oddly soothing, each movement pulling me closer to freedom. When Mrs. Turner finally handed me my reflection paper, her expression softened ever so slightly.

"You did well this week, Emily," she said, her tone still neutral but carrying an undertone of approval.

"Thank you," I replied, my voice quiet but steady. I carefully folded the paper and tucked it into my bag before slinging it over my shoulder and walking out of the room for the last time.

Outside, the crisp fall air wrapped around me like an old friend. The sky was a canvas of soft oranges and pinks, the sun dipping low on the horizon. I spotted Mrs. Blake's car in the parking lot, her familiar silhouette behind the wheel. She rolled down the window as I approached, her smile warm and steady.

"Last day of detention," she said as I climbed into the passenger seat, the door creaking softly as it closed behind me. "How does it feel?"

"Good," I said simply, staring out at the trees lining the school's edge. The words felt small compared to the storm of relief swelling in my chest, but they were enough.

Mrs. Blake didn't push for more, and I was grateful for her quiet understanding. The drive home was peaceful, the kind of silence that didn't demand to be filled. The steady hum of the engine and the golden light filtering through the trees made everything feel... lighter. For the first time in days, I let myself exhale.

That night was different. The house seemed to glow with a subtle warmth, not just from the flickering light of the chandelier in the dining room but from something intangible. The smell of baked chicken and roasted vegetables wafted through the air, mingling with the faint aroma of freshly polished wood. The table was set with a care I hadn't seen before, every plate perfectly aligned, and a small vase of wildflowers sat proudly in the center. Mrs. Blake had even folded the napkins into neat triangles, a detail that felt both charming and unnecessary, yet somehow fitting.

"This feels fancy," Sam joked as he plopped down into his usual seat, his freckled nose twitching as he sniffed the air. "What's the occasion? Did someone win the lottery?"

Mrs. Blake, her apron dusted with flour and her cheeks pink from the heat of the kitchen, chuckled softly. "No occasion," she replied, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I just thought we'd have a nice dinner together to end the week. It's good to slow down sometimes."

"Well, I'm not complaining," Sam said, rubbing his hands together. "Can I have extra chicken?"

"You'll get your fair share," she replied with a mock sternness that softened into a smile. "But only if you wait your turn."

Lily, seated next to me, clapped her hands with glee. "Can we have dessert, too?" she asked, her wide eyes sparkling with the kind of hope only an eight-year-old could muster.

Mrs. Blake tilted her head, her tone playful. "If you finish your vegetables," she said, pointing at the platter of roasted carrots and green beans on the table.

As the others laughed and chatted, I sat quietly, unsure of how to join in. The room was alive with warmth and energy, and for once, I didn't feel like I was intruding. Sam's quick wit kept the conversation lively, and Lily's endless stream of questions about everything from school to her favorite book kept everyone entertained. At one point, she turned to me, her face alight with curiosity.

"What's your favorite color?" she asked, her voice sweet and genuine.

Caught off guard, I hesitated before answering. "Uh, blue," I said, glancing at her shyly. "Like the sky."

"Mine's pink," she announced proudly. "Do you like books? What's your favorite one?"

I couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. "I do like books," I said. "Probably... 'The Secret Garden.'"

"I love that one!" Lily exclaimed, bouncing in her seat. Her joy was infectious, and for the first time that evening, I felt a flicker of belonging.

After dinner, Mrs. Blake disappeared into the kitchen and returned moments later with a small chocolate cake, its glossy frosting glistening under the light. Lily and Sam cheered as she set it on the table, their excitement palpable.

"All right, you two," she said with a laugh, "let's not forget our manners. Everyone gets a slice."

As we ate, the sweetness of the cake lingered on my tongue, a perfect contrast to the savory dinner we'd just shared. I savored each bite, feeling the warmth of the evening settle deep in my chest. The room was filled with laughter, the kind that echoed and wrapped around you like a favorite blanket.

Later that night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I thought about the week. It had been hard, filled with moments where I doubted everything—myself, my choices, my place in this new life. But somehow, I'd made it through. And tonight had been a reminder that maybe, just maybe, I was starting to find my footing.

The house was eerily quiet as I sat cross-legged on my bed, a book open in my lap though the words blurred together, unread. The faint hum of the heater and the muffled laughter of Sam and Lily playing downstairs were the only sounds breaking the stillness. Dinner had come and gone, leaving behind a lingering warmth that had lulled the house into a calm, almost drowsy state. But my mind couldn't seem to settle, a strange sense of unease prickling at the edges of my thoughts.

Then my phone buzzed, jolting me from my reverie. I grabbed it quickly, On the screen, showed Jasmine.

"Hey," I said, my voice brightening as I answered.

"Emily," Jasmine's voice was sharp, almost frantic. "You need to turn on the news. Right now."

I blinked, my confusion mounting. "What? Why? What's going on?"

"Just do it," she urged, her voice trembling. "Trust me, you need to see this."

The line went dead before I could ask anything more. My stomach twisted with a sudden, inexplicable dread. Sliding off my bed, I made my way downstairs, my heart pounding in time with each step.

Mrs. Blake was in the living room, folding laundry with her usual precision while Sam and Lily played a game of checkers on the rug. The scene was so ordinary, so unshaken, that it almost made Jasmine's urgency feel misplaced. Almost.

"Mrs. Blake?" My voice wavered as I stepped into the room. "Can we turn on the TV? Jasmine just called and said something... something's happened."

Mrs. Blake paused, her hands stilling mid-fold. Concern flashed across her face, and she set the laundry aside without a word. She reached for the remote, and with a few quick presses, the television screen blinked to life, casting a pale glow across the room.

The local news station appeared, the headline screaming across the bottom of the screen:
BREAKING: Fatal Fire Claims One Life in East Side House Fire.

My breath caught, my chest tightening as the anchor's voice filled the room.

"A devastating fire broke out earlier this evening in a residential home on the east side of town. Firefighters have been working tirelessly to extinguish the blaze, but tragically, one resident was unable to escape."

The screen cut to footage of the fire, flames roaring through the skeletal remains of a house. Thick black smoke billowed into the night sky, illuminated by the flashing lights of fire trucks. My hands began to tremble, a cold sweat breaking out along the back of my neck.

"The victim has been identified as Beverly Saunders, a resident of the home," the anchor continued, her voice measured but heavy. "Authorities believe the fire originated in the living room, though the exact cause remains under investigation."

The room seemed to tilt, the air sucked from my lungs.

Beverly Saunders.

My mother.

"No," I whispered, the word barely audible over the sound of my pounding heart. My knees buckled, and I grabbed the edge of the couch to steady myself. "No. No. No!"

Mrs. Blake's head snapped toward me, her face pale. "Emily," she said, her voice low and careful, but it only made everything worse. It was real. This was real.

"She... she's..." My voice cracked, the sentence dying on my lips as tears blurred my vision. The images on the screen burned into my mind: the charred walls, the collapsed roof, the smoke swallowing the night.

Mrs. Blake crossed the room in an instant, pulling me into her arms as the sobs tore from my chest. Her embrace was firm, steady, but it couldn't hold back the flood of grief and disbelief crashing over me. "I'm so sorry, Emily," she whispered, her own voice breaking. "I'm so, so sorry."

Sam and Lily had fallen silent, their game forgotten as they stared, wide-eyed, from the floor. Mrs. Blake motioned for them to leave, and they retreated to the kitchen without a word, their small footsteps echoing faintly as they disappeared down the hall.

"It's going to be okay," Mrs. Blake murmured, stroking my hair as I clung to her. But the words felt hollow, a fragile raft in the middle of a storm I couldn't see an end to. The pain was suffocating, each breath a struggle against the weight pressing down on my chest.

Time lost all meaning as we sat there, the world outside the room fading into the background. When my tears finally subsided, leaving me drained and raw, Mrs. Blake guided me to the couch and sat beside me, her arm still wrapped around my shoulders. The news had moved on to another story, but the image of the fire remained seared into my mind, a brand I couldn't escape.

"What happens now?" I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper, trembling with the weight of the question.

Mrs. Blake hesitated, her eyes filled with a sadness I'd never seen before. "We take it one step at a time," she said gently. "Whatever you need, Emily, we'll figure it out together."

I nodded weakly, leaning into her side as a fresh wave of exhaustion washed over me. The world had shifted, fractured into something unrecognizable, and I felt impossibly small against it. But as Mrs. Blake held me close, her presence a steady anchor in the chaos, a flicker of solace crept in. I wasn't alone. Not completely.

Even in the darkest moments, there was still someone there, holding on.

Saturday morning dawned quietly in the Blake household. The usual sounds of Sam and Lily's laughter and chatter were subdued, as if the house it's self knew what had happened the night before. The fire, the news, the grief—it was all too heavy. I stayed in my room, curled up on the bed with a blanket wrapped tightly around me. The gray sky outside matched the weight in my chest, cold and unshakable.

I stared out the window, watching the branches of the bare tree sway in the wind. The scene blurred as tears welled up, and I swiped at my face angrily. The house had been old, falling apart, just like my mom. It was almost poetic in the cruelest way. And yet, I couldn't stop the thought that kept haunting me: I should have been there.

A soft knock interrupted the silence. Mrs. Blake's voice followed, warm and gentle. "Emily, breakfast is ready if you're hungry."

"I'm not," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

She hesitated, but I didn't move, and after a moment, I heard her footsteps retreating down the hall. Part of me felt guilty for pushing her away, but the guilt of something else drowned out everything else. I wasn't there. She died alone. The thought twisted in my chest, sharp and unforgiving. I should have been there. It's all my fault.

By late morning, the weight of my emotions had only grown heavier, like something sharp lodged in my chest, impossible to dislodge. The memories of my mom wouldn't leave me alone. Her yelling, the beer cans scattered across the living room, the punishments that came out of nowhere—all of it played on a loop in my mind, no matter how much I tried to push it away.

But tangled in the chaos were the softer moments, and they hurt even more. Like the way she brushed my hair when I was little, humming a tune I didn't know but pretended to recognize. Or my eighth birthday in Folkston, when she surprised me with a lopsided cake that leaned so badly I thought it might topple over before I could blow out the single candle. She smiled so big that day, even though the frosting was uneven, and the cake tasted a little burnt. She had tried, and in that moment, it had been enough.

I hated her sometimes—hated how she could make me feel small with just a look or a word. But I loved her, too. Despite everything, I loved her.

And now she was gone. My whole family is gone.

The fire. The thought of it made my stomach churn. I could see it so clearly in my mind, even though I hadn't been there. Smoke curling through the air, thick and suffocating, the flames swallowing the house whole. The house had been falling apart for years, way before we moved there a few months ago—a death trap waiting to happen—but it had still been ours. It was more than just a house. It was where we'd fought, where I survived, even when it felt like the world outside was crumbling.

I couldn't stop picturing her in those last moments. Alone, coughing as the smoke filled the rooms. The walls glowing with fire, the heat unbearable. Did she try to escape? Did she wonder where I was? Did she call out my name, hoping I would come to save her? My chest tightened, the questions too heavy to bear. I didn't want to think about it, but the thoughts came anyway, relentless and cruel. I should have been there.

I pulled my knees to my chest, hugging them tightly as the tears spilled over again. I hadn't been there. I didn't hear her yelling or calling for help. But that didn't make the guilt any easier to carry. I should have been there. I should have known.

Now, all that was left was—

The silence around me felt too loud, pressing in from all sides, and I couldn't help but wonder if I'd ever feel whole again.

Another knock at the door broke through my thoughts, this one lighter, quicker. "Emily?" Lily's voice was cheerful and insistent, a stark contrast to the heaviness in my heart. "You've got to see this!"

I didn't answer, staring at the faint crack of light creeping in under the door. The room felt impossibly still, except for the faint creak of the ceiling fan above me. It was easier to stay quiet, hoping Lily would give up and leave me alone with the silence. But Lily wasn't the type to give up easily.

The door creaked open a crack, the soft shuffle of her bare feet on the hardwood floor breaking into the quiet. Her bright, smiling face peeked in, framed by a ribbon slipping loose from her hair. She carried a piece of paper in her hands like it was something sacred.

"I drew you something," she said, stepping fully into the room. Her voice, so light and full of life, felt almost out of place here, in the shadows of this room that still smelled faintly of lavender and sunshine. "Look!"

I turned my head just enough to glance at the paper. It was a colorful drawing of a giraffe standing in a field of flowers, its long neck stretching toward the sun. The flowers—messy blobs of red, yellow, and purple—looked like they were swaying in some invisible breeze. In the corner, written in big, bubbly letters surrounded by tiny hearts and stars, were the words: Feel Better Soon, Emily!

"It's nice," I said softly, my voice cracking as I spoke. I managed a small, wavering smile, though the effort of it tugged against the ache deep in my chest.

Lily beamed as if I'd just praised her as the next great artist. She bounced over to the bed, plopping down on the edge without hesitation. The mattress dipped under her weight, making my body shift just slightly, though I felt too heavy to really move.

"I can draw something else if you want! What's your favorite animal?" she asked, her legs swinging.

"I don't know," I admitted. My voice sounded thin, like it was trying to squeeze through the thick cloud that surrounded me.

"Then I'll just pick one," she decided, her grin unwavering. "Maybe a panda. Everyone likes pandas."

Her enthusiasm pushed against the quiet grief pressing on me, like a beam of sunlight breaking through heavy curtains. "A panda sounds good," I murmured, the words barely above a whisper.

"Perfect!" she chirped, leaning forward, her elbows propped on her knees. "I'm gonna draw it in a bamboo forest with butterflies and stuff. It's gonna be amazing."

Her confidence stirred something faint and fragile inside me.

Lily's eyes sparkled like she'd won some invisible contest. "You'll feel better soon, Emily," she said firmly, as if her words alone could mend things. "Promise."

I glanced at the drawing still in my hands, my fingers brushing over the crayon strokes. It smelled faintly of wax, the vibrant colors so unlike the muted grays that filled my world lately. Lily's voice was fading as she skipped out of the room, off to find more crayons.

The giraffe's neck stretched toward the sun, its head tilted as if reaching for something just out of reach. I stared at it for a long time, the ache in my chest growing sharper, heavier.

The lavender-scented breeze from the window stirred the curtains gently, carrying the faintest reminder of her. I tightened my grip on the paper as a lump rose in my throat. Maybe one day, this weight in my chest would lift. Maybe the warmth of Lily's laughter, her determination to make things better, would melt through the cold I couldn't shake.

But for now, I let Lily's warmth fill the empty, quiet corners of the room—and my heart—if only for a little while.

The rest of the day passed slowly, each hour stretching endlessly, as if the clock itself were dragging its feet. I stayed mostly quiet, even as Lily made it her mission to cheer me up.

She was relentless in her efforts, her voice a steady stream of energy that filled the quiet corners of the house. At one point, she appeared in my doorway, tugging at my arm with a determined grin. "Come on," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We're playing a game."

Before I could protest, I found myself in the living room, seated cross-legged on the floor. Lily had already pulled Sam into her orbit, and he gave me an encouraging smile as we set up the pieces of the board game.

"It's gonna be fun," Lily declared, her hands working quickly to organize the cards and tokens. "I'll even let you go first, Emily."

I nodded, picking up the dice. My fingers felt stiff around them, the edges pressing into my palm. When I finally rolled, the clatter of the dice echoed louder than it should have in the stillness of the room.

Every move I made felt mechanical, like I was going through the motions of a script I couldn't rewrite. The bright colors of the board blurred together as my gaze unfocused. I forced a laugh when Sam made a joke, though the sound came out hollow.

Lily, oblivious or perhaps deliberately ignoring my distance, leaned closer as the game went on. She was so close I could smell the faint, sugary hint of the lemonade she'd been drinking earlier.

"You don't have to be sad forever, you know," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rustle of the game pieces. "It's okay to smile."

Her words were so simple, yet they hit me harder than I expected, like a small pebble dropped into a still pond. The ripples spread through me, quiet and steady, making it hard to swallow.

I nodded slowly, though I didn't say anything in return. The lump in my throat made words impossible, and I wasn't sure what I'd say even if I could speak.

Lily beamed, as though my nod was the promise she needed. She turned her focus back to the game with the same boundless energy that seemed to define her, laughing and teasing Sam when he made a bad move.

I sat there, letting their voices fill the room, but my thoughts drifted. The house felt too big, even with the three of us gathered together. The air held the faint scent of something I couldn't place—maybe lavender or a hint of old wood polish—both comforting and unbearable at the same time.

As the game dragged on, I let my eyes wander to the window. The sunlight was fading, the golden hues of the afternoon giving way to a muted gray. The familiar ache in my chest stirred, pressing down like a weight I couldn't lift.

But Lily's words lingered, her voice echoing in the back of my mind. It's okay to smile.

Maybe one day, I thought, the ache would ease. Maybe the sunlight outside wouldn't feel so far away. For now, though, I stayed where I was, letting their laughter brush against the edges of my sorrow. It didn't reach all the way through, but it was enough to keep me tethered for a little while longer.

That evening, I found myself on the back porch, wrapped in a blanket and staring at the stars. The night was still, the kind of quiet that felt heavier than silence. The cool air brushed against my face, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth.

I didn't hear Mrs. Blake approach, but I felt the shift in the air when she sat down beside me. She didn't say anything at first, just looked up at the sky with me. The stars were scattered like pinpricks of light on an endless canvas, distant and untouchable.

"It's okay to feel everything you're feeling," she said after a while, her voice soft but steady. "Sadness, anger, confusion... all of it. There's no right or wrong way to grieve."

Her words settled over me like the blanket wrapped around my shoulders, offering warmth but not quite reaching the cold ache deep inside. I nodded, my throat tight. The words I wanted to say felt too big to fit into the space between us, but eventually, they spilled out anyway.

"It's just... she was still my mom, even after everything. And now she's gone. Completely gone." My voice cracked, the last word barely audible.

Mrs. Blake didn't try to fill the silence that followed. Instead, she slid an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. The gesture was gentle, her embrace steady and warm against the chill of the night.

"I can't imagine how hard this is for you, Emily," she said after a moment. Her tone carried the kind of honesty that didn't try to fix things, just acknowledged the weight of what I was feeling. "But I'm here, and so is everyone else in this house. You're not alone."

I leaned into her, the familiar scent of her lavender lotion mingling with the night air. Her words settled in the spaces I didn't even know needed filling. I wasn't sure I believed them yet—not entirely—but the thought of not being alone, of someone carrying even a fraction of this weight with me, was enough to keep me steady for the moment.

The stars above seemed to blur as tears welled in my eyes, but I didn't let them fall. Instead, I focused on the feel of the blanket around me, the warmth of Mrs. Blake's arm, and the quiet hum of crickets in the distance. The world hadn't stopped spinning, even though mine felt like it had.

For now, I let myself sit in the quiet comfort of her presence, the night stretching on as we stared at the stars together.

Her words were a comfort, even if they didn't erase the ache in my chest. For the first time that day, I let myself lean into her warmth, closing my eyes and letting the quiet of the night surround us. It didn't make the pain go away, but it reminded me that I didn't have to carry it all by myself.

Sunday morning was calmer, and for the first time since the fire, I felt like I could breathe again, even if just a little. The sadness still lingered, but it wasn't as overwhelming as it had been. I got out of bed and joined the family at the breakfast table, where Lily greeted me with her usual enthusiasm.

"Good morning, Emily!" she said, waving a forkful of scrambled eggs. "Guess what I'm drawing today?"

I smiled faintly, shaking my head. "What?"

"A lion," she said proudly. "It's going to have the biggest mane ever. You'll love it."

Her energy was infectious, and I found myself smiling a little more. Mrs. Blake set a plate in front of me and gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. "It's good to see you out here," she said softly.

After breakfast, I wandered into the living room, where a stack of mail and newspapers sat on the coffee table. The top newspaper caught my eye, its bold headline reading: Fatal Fire on East Side Under Investigation. My chest tightened as I sat down and unfolded the paper, skimming the article.

It didn't take long to find the details. Officials have determined that the fire started in the basement of the home, where a malfunctioning washer ignited and quickly spread through the old wooden structure. Firefighters were unable to contain the blaze before the house was completely engulfed.

I stared at the words, my hands trembling slightly. The washer. That piece of shit I always complained about how old it was, how it rattled and leaked. I thought about how often she'd yelled at me to use it, to get the laundry done even when the basement felt like it might collapse around me.

A shiver ran through me. It could have been me. If things had been different, if I'd still been there, it could have been me trapped in that fire.

"Emily?" Mrs. Blake's voice broke through my thoughts. She was standing in the doorway, her expression full of concern. "Are you okay?"

I nodded slowly, folding the newspaper and setting it back on the table. "I just... I was reading about the fire."

She came over and sat beside me, her hand resting lightly on my arm. "What did it say?"

"It started in the basement," I said quietly. "The washer caught fire."

Her brow furrowed, and she nodded, her grip on my arm tightening slightly. "I'm so sorry, Emily."

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. "It could have been me," I said, my voice trembling. "If I'd still been living there... I might not have made it out."

Mrs. Blake didn't respond immediately. Instead, she wrapped her arms around me, holding me close. "But you're here now," she said softly. "You're safe. And you have so much ahead of you, Emily. So many chances to build a better future."

Her words settled over me like a blanket, warm and comforting. I let myself lean into her for a moment before pulling back and nodding. "Thank you," I said, my voice steadier now.

The rest of the day passed quietly. I spent time with Sam and Lily, helping them put together a puzzle and even laughing at Lily's jokes. The sadness didn't disappear, but I found that it didn't weigh me down as much when I focused on the small, good moments.

That night, as I lay in bed, I thought about the article again. The fire had taken my mother, and it had changed everything. But it had also shown me how far I'd come. I wasn't in that house anymore, living in fear and uncertainty. I was here, in a place where I was cared for, where I could start to heal.

And you know what, I felt a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, things would be okay.

The day of the funeral arrived under a slate-gray sky, heavy with unfallen rain. The chill in the air wasn't sharp, but it was persistent, the kind that seeped into your bones and made you wish for warmth that would never come. The weather seemed fitting, as though the world itself mourned along with me.

Mrs. Blake was the one who helped me get ready. She laid out my black dress on the bed with careful precision, smoothing down every wrinkle as if perfection might somehow lessen the ache. "You'll look lovely, dear," she said softly, her hands lingering on my shoulders for a moment before she stepped out to give me privacy. Her kindness felt like a fragile lifeline I clung to.

I stood in front of the mirror, staring at the girl who stared back. She seemed like a stranger—older, somehow, though only days had passed since my mother was gone. My pale face and dark-ringed eyes betrayed restless nights and tear-soaked pillows. I barely recognized myself, and I hated the vulnerability etched into every shadow and hollow of my reflection. This wasn't the version of me I wanted the world to see, but it was the only one I had to give.

The Blakes waited for me in the living room, their presence solid and reassuring in a way I desperately needed. Mrs. Blake wore a simple black dress, and Mr. Blake's suit looked like it had been worn to occasions just like this many times before—clean and somber, but not new. Sam and Lily fidgeted slightly in their formal clothes, clearly uncomfortable but trying to hide it. They didn't know my mother, but they were here anyway, and that mattered. It mattered more than I could put into words.

"Ready, sweetheart?" Mrs. Blake asked gently. Her voice was warm, but there was an undercurrent of worry, as though she wasn't sure if I'd shatter on the way to the funeral home.

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak, and followed them outside. The walk to the car felt heavy, as though each step dragged more than just my body forward—it dragged my grief, my memories, and the gaping absence of my mother, too.

The funeral home was modest, with a muted, almost reverent atmosphere. The scent of lilies and roses filled the room, their sweetness cloying against the quiet sobs and murmured condolences that drifted through the air. I recognized only a handful of faces, most of them blurred by the haze of my grief. Distant relatives and acquaintances I barely remembered exchanged solemn nods with me as I passed, their expressions a strange mix of pity and detachment.

At the front of the room, the casket stood closed, polished to a shine that felt wrong. It reflected the light in a way that seemed too bright for a day like this, for a moment like this. The flowers arranged around it—white lilies and roses—were beautiful, but they felt like an affront to the rawness in my chest. My breath hitched at the sight of them, and I gripped the back of the nearest chair to steady myself.

Mrs. Blake guided me to a seat in the front row, her hand a steadying presence on my arm. I sat with my hands folded tightly in my lap, staring straight ahead as the service began. The man who spoke at the podium talked about loss, about cherishing memories and finding strength in each other. I tried to listen, but his voice was a distant hum, and the words slipped away before I could catch them. My focus kept drifting to the flowers, to the way their soft petals seemed so fragile against the dark, unyielding wood of the casket.

When my name was called, a gentle nudge from Mrs. Blake brought me back to the present. I stood, my legs unsteady beneath me, and walked to the front of the room. The eyes of the crowd bore down on me, and I felt my pulse quicken. Each step felt like I was walking into a storm, my heart pounding louder with every breath.

I unfolded the piece of paper I had spent hours agonizing over the night before. My hands trembled as I held it, and I clenched my fists briefly, trying to steady myself. Taking a deep breath, I looked out over the sea of faces. Some watched me with quiet sympathy, their expressions open and kind. Others seemed distant, their gazes filled with a detached curiosity, as though they were here only because it was expected.

But then my eyes found Mrs. Blake. She sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her expression warm and encouraging. Her smile was small, but it carried more strength than I could have imagined. In that moment, I clung to it, let it anchor me like a lifeline in a raging sea.

I took another breath, steadier this time, and began to speak. My voice trembled at first, cracking under the weight of my emotions, but I pressed on. Each word felt like a struggle, but they were mine, a tribute to my mother that no one else could give.

"My mother, Beverly," I began, my voice unsteady but gaining strength with each word, "was a complicated person. She wasn't perfect, and our relationship wasn't always easy. But she was my mother. She was strong in her own way, and she taught me lessons I'm only now beginning to understand."

I paused, the room blurring for a moment as I blinked back tears. I tightened my grip on the paper in my hand and took a deep breath before continuing. "She had her struggles, and life wasn't kind to her. But I know that, deep down, she wanted better. She wanted better for herself, and she wanted better for me. And for that, I'll always be grateful."

The memories surfaced then, unbidden but welcome, like a ray of sunlight breaking through the gray. I hesitated, then spoke from my heart, the words coming freely now. "My mama had a way of making even the hardest days feel lighter. I remember one summer when we spent an entire afternoon trying to build a tree swing in the old oak out back. Papa had left for a job in town, so it was just the two of us. Mama wasn't much for tools, but she was determined."

I couldn't help but smile faintly, the corners of my lips trembling. "She found an old tire behind the barn, and we hauled it out together. I held the rope while she tried to tie it to the branch. She must've climbed up and down that tree a dozen times before we got it just right. And when it was finally done, she let me have the first turn. I swung so high that I thought I could touch the sky, and Mama just stood there laughing, her hair falling out of its bun and her cheeks red from the heat."

I glanced out at the room, my eyes searching for Mrs. Blake. Her soft smile gave me the courage to keep going. "It wasn't just the big things, though. It was the little moments, too. Like the time we made peach cobbler together because the peaches on the tree by the porch were too ripe to eat. Mama let me mix the batter, even though I spilled half of it on the counter. She always said, 'The messier the kitchen, the better the food.' She was right. That cobbler was the best thing I've ever tasted."

My throat tightened again, but I pushed through. "And then there were the mornings when Papa and I would head out to the pasture to check on the cows, and Mama would come along just to keep us company. She'd bring a basket with biscuits and jars of peach preserves and sit on the fence while Papa showed me how to work the gate or told me stories about when he was a boy. Mama would always chime in, saying, 'Don't let him fool you. He got into more trouble than he'll admit.' She had this way of teasing him that made him laugh and shake his head, like he couldn't believe his luck to have her."

The paper in my hands rustled as I set it back on the podium, my vision blurring with tears. "I'll carry those lessons with me. And even though she's gone, I hope she's found peace. I hope she knows that I'll do my best to make the life she wanted for me a reality."

My voice broke on the last word, and I quickly stepped away, returning to my seat as the tears spilled over. Mrs. Blake reached for my hand, her touch warm and grounding. I clung to it, focusing on the strength she offered as the service continued. The words of the next speaker were lost on me as I let the memories linger, each one a bittersweet echo of the love and laughter we'd shared.

Afterward, we followed the slow procession to the cemetery. The sky had grown darker, a heavy gray that hung low, the clouds swollen with the promise of rain. A chill wind stirred the air, carrying the faint scent of wet earth and something sweet—maybe flowers from the wreaths that had been brought to the gravesite. It was the kind of weather that pressed down on you, matching the weight in your chest.

The ground was damp beneath my feet, the soles of my shoes sinking slightly into the softened dirt as we gathered near the open grave. The wooden casket stood at its edge, suspended by ropes, its polished surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. A simple stone marker sat nearby, waiting to be placed, its inscription unreadable from where I stood. The reality of it all seemed to blur together—the finality of the moment and the ache in my chest. It felt too much, and yet not enough, as if no ceremony could truly capture the loss I felt.

The murmured prayers from the minister drifted around me, their words muddled by the sound of the wind rustling through the trees. My hands were clenched into fists at my sides, the cool air biting at my fingers. I stood stiffly, unable to do anything but watch as the casket was slowly lowered into the ground. The hollow creak of the ropes and the dull thud as it settled struck me like a blow, stealing my breath for a moment. My chest tightened, the weight of everything pressing down until it felt unbearable.

I gripped Mrs. Blake's hand tighter, her warmth grounding me even as my thoughts spiraled. Tears threatened to fall again, but I wiped them back, determined not to lose myself completely. People began stepping forward, one by one, to toss a handful of dirt onto the casket. Each motion seemed deliberate, like a punctuation mark to an unspoken sentence, and I couldn't look away from the small pile of earth growing in the grave.

When it was my turn, I hesitated, staring at the handful of dirt someone had pressed into my hand. It felt cool and grainy against my palm, and for a moment, I couldn't move. The weight of what I was about to do, of what it symbolized, held me still. The murmurs of the crowd seemed to fade, replaced by the rapid thudding of my heart in my ears.

"Goodbye, Mom," I whispered, so quietly that the words were lost in the wind. My hand shook as I let the dirt fall, and the sharp, hollow sound of it hitting the casket below sent a shiver through me. I stepped back quickly, as if staying too long might make it harder to let go.

The others continued, their movements blurring together as I stood near Mrs. Blake. My head felt heavy, and my breath came in uneven gasps that I tried to steady. By the time the last handful of dirt was cast, the rain had begun to fall, just a few drops at first, soft and hesitant. They dotted the fabric of my dress and darkened the ground at my feet.

As the minister spoke his final words, people began to disperse, their voices hushed and their steps slow. Hugs were offered, hands pressed gently against my shoulders, murmured condolences filling the air. "I'm so sorry for your loss," they said, or "She's in a better place now," words that were meant to comfort but felt distant, as though they were meant for someone else.

I lingered at the edge of the grave, unable to pull myself away. My eyes were fixed on the spot where the casket now lay hidden beneath layers of earth. It felt impossible that she was truly gone, that this was the last place I would ever see her.

The first real drops of rain began to fall, cold against my skin and mingling with the warmth of the tears that I could no longer hold back. I stood there, letting the rain soak into my hair and dress, until I felt Mrs. Blake's hand on my shoulder. Her touch was firm but gentle, her voice quiet and steady.

"It's time to go, Emily," she said softly, her words carrying both an understanding of my grief and a quiet insistence that I couldn't stay here forever.

I nodded, though my feet felt rooted to the ground. Slowly, I turned away, my steps heavy as I followed her back toward the waiting car. My heart felt heavier than ever, yet somewhere deep within the weight of my sorrow, there was the faintest sliver of something else. It wasn't peace—not yet—but maybe the hope that I could keep moving forward. One step at a time, even if they were small ones.

The funeral reception was held in a small hall adjacent to the funeral home. The room was modest, with pale walls and rows of long tables draped in white cloths. Platters of food lined one side of the room: neat stacks of sandwiches, bowls of potato and pasta salad, plates piled high with cookies, and pitchers of iced tea and coffee. The smell of fresh bread and brewed coffee mingled with the faint floral scent from the funeral arrangements brought in from the service.

Soft conversation filled the space, blending with the clinking of cups and the rustling of paper napkins. People spoke in low tones, their words a mixture of sympathy, memories, and small talk. Every now and then, a light laugh would break through, though it was quickly subdued, as though people weren't sure if joy was allowed in a moment like this.

I lingered near the entrance at first, my feet rooted to the ground as I scanned the room. I felt out of place, unsure where to go or what to say. The weight of the day had settled into my chest, heavy and unrelenting, and the thought of facing more condolences felt overwhelming. The Blakes stayed close, forming a quiet shield around me. Mrs. Blake's reassuring smile cut through the haze, and she gently guided me toward one of the tables.

"Would you like something to eat, Emily?" she asked softly, her voice calm and warm.

I shook my head, unable to muster an appetite despite the spread before us. "Not right now," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, her expression full of understanding. "That's okay. Just let me know if you change your mind."

Nearby, Lily and Sam were sitting with their plates of food, their usual boundless energy subdued but still flickering beneath the surface. Lily glanced at me, then held out a cookie with a hopeful smile. It was one of the oatmeal ones, speckled with raisins and sugar crystals.

"These are really good," she said, her tone bright but gentle. "You should try one."

I managed a small smile and took the cookie, though I wasn't sure I'd eat it. "Thanks," I murmured, my voice soft.

As the reception went on, people approached me in waves. Some offered hugs that felt too tight, their perfume lingering long after they let go. Others placed a light hand on my shoulder or clasped my hands in theirs, their voices soft with sympathy.

"Emily, I'm so sorry for your loss," one woman said, her touch as light as a whisper. "Your mother was always so kind to me when I ran into her at the store. She had a smile that could brighten anyone's day."

Another man, older and somber, nodded as he stepped closer. "Beverly had a good heart. She always talked about you, when you were in school, back in Folkston. How proud she was. She'll be missed."

I nodded politely, murmuring thanks, though their words didn't feel like they belonged to the same woman I knew. Their memories of my mother—kind, cheerful, steady—felt like pieces of a puzzle I couldn't quite fit together. My mother was kind, but she was also complicated, and hearing these polished versions of her left me feeling unsettled, as though they had seen only a shadow of the person she truly was.

Mrs. Blake must have noticed my unease. She stepped in several times, her voice warm but firm as she guided the conversations away when they lingered too long. "Thank you for your kind words," she'd say with a practiced grace that both acknowledged their sentiments and gently moved them along.

At one point, I found myself standing alone by a window, looking out at the cloudy sky. The glass felt cool against my fingertips as I leaned slightly against the frame, watching raindrops spatter against the pane. The weight of the day seemed to press down on me all at once, and for a moment, I felt like I couldn't breathe.

"Emily?" Mrs. Blake's voice broke through the fog, soft and steady. I turned to see her standing behind me, a steaming cup of tea in her hands. "I thought this might help," she said, holding it out to me.

"Thanks," I said, wrapping my hands around the warm cup. The heat seeped into my fingers, grounding me in a way I didn't realize I needed. She didn't say anything else, just stood beside me, her presence steady and comforting. For a few moments, the world seemed a little quieter, the storm inside me easing just enough to let me take a deep breath.

Toward the end of the reception, Lily reappeared with a paper plate in her hands, balancing a tower of cookies and small sandwiches. Her face lit up with a mischievous grin, and she held the plate out to me.

"You've got to try these," she said brightly, her voice cutting through the somber air. "It's the best part of all this boring stuff."

Her innocence tugged at something inside me, and I couldn't help but smile. "Thanks, Lily," I said, taking a small sandwich from the top of her plate. It tasted better than I expected—simple but comforting, like something Mama might have made on a quiet afternoon.

As people began to leave, they stopped by to say goodbye. Some hugged me tightly, their warmth fleeting but appreciated. Others offered a kind word or a soft pat on the shoulder. By the time the hall emptied out, I felt drained, every muscle in my body heavy with exhaustion. And yet, there was a strange lightness, too, as if hearing people's memories of my mother had lifted a small piece of the burden I'd been carrying.

Mrs. Blake helped me gather my things, her movements efficient but unhurried, as though she understood that I needed to take my time. Mr. Blake ushered Sam and Lily toward the door, their subdued chatter filling the quiet as they waited for us.

"You did well today, Emily," Mrs. Blake said as we stepped outside into the cool evening air. "I know it wasn't easy, but you handled everything with grace."

Her words lingered in my mind as we walked to the car. The day had been harder than I could have imagined, but I had made it through. And as we drove away from the hall, the first stars beginning to peek through the clouds, I realized something else: I wasn't as alone as I had thought. The Blakes were there, steady and unwavering, and for now, that was enough to keep me moving forward.

The week went by too quickly, each day blurring into the next. It had been two days since my mother's funeral, but the heaviness of it all still clung to me like a shadow I couldn't shake. The thought of going back to school felt daunting, a task I wasn't sure I could face. Although it was Friday, a day most kids looked forward to, it offered no relief for me. I wished I could stay home, curl up in the quiet comfort of the Blakes' house, and let the world spin on without me.

Mrs. Blake, though, had other plans. "You need to get back, even if it's just for today," she'd said that morning, her voice gentle but firm. She handed me a brown paper bag with my lunch neatly packed, then pulled me into a quick hug. "You've got this, Emily," she said, her warm smile a small anchor in the storm of my emotions. I nodded, though I wasn't sure I believed her.

The school hallways were the same as always, filled with the chaotic energy of kids laughing, shouting, and slamming their lockers. But to me, it all felt distant, like I was watching it from behind a pane of glass. My feet felt heavy as I walked to my first class, my head down to avoid the curious stares and pitying looks I was sure were waiting for me. The familiar surroundings felt strange, almost foreign, as though the world had moved on while I was stuck in place.

When I reached the classroom, Jasmine was already there. Her face lit up when she saw me, her smile warm and genuine. "Hey, Emily! You're back!" she said, her voice a little louder than I would've liked.

"Yeah," I replied quietly, sliding into my seat and setting my bag down. My hands fidgeted with the strap, needing something to do.

Jasmine hesitated, her usual bubbly demeanor softening as she leaned closer. "How are you? I mean, really?" she asked, her voice low and cautious, as though she didn't want to push too hard.

I shrugged, avoiding her gaze. "I'm okay. It's... been a lot."

Her expression shifted to something gentler, her brown eyes full of understanding. "I get it," she said softly. "If you ever want to talk or, like, not talk and just hang out, I'm here."

The sincerity in her voice tugged at something inside me, and I managed a small, shaky smile. "Thanks."

The day dragged on, each class feeling like it lasted an eternity. I moved through them in a quiet daze, my mind struggling to focus on anything but the hollow ache in my chest. Teachers gave me sympathetic looks when they called on me, their voices softer than usual, but none of them brought up what had happened. For that, I was grateful. I didn't want to explain or relive it. I just wanted to get through the day.

At lunch, I hesitated near the cafeteria doors, scanning the crowded room for Jasmine. The noise hit me like a wave—the scrape of chairs, the hum of overlapping conversations, the occasional burst of laughter—but I found her at our usual table, waving me over with a bright smile.

"I saved you a seat," she said as I approached, gesturing to the chair beside her. She handed me a small bag of chips from her tray. "Here. I know you like these."

"Thanks," I murmured, taking the bag. The gesture was small, but it warmed me in a way I didn't expect. It was a reminder that someone had thought of me, that I wasn't entirely invisible.

Jasmine kept the conversation light, talking about a movie she'd watched over the weekend and how she'd completely bombed her history quiz. She mimicked the exaggerated way her teacher had scolded the class, and I couldn't help but smile, even letting out a quiet laugh at one point. She didn't press me to talk, didn't ask questions I wasn't ready to answer. Instead, she filled the silence with her stories, creating a safe bubble where I could simply be.

The cafeteria buzzed with activity around us. Kids laughed and shouted, trading bits of food and joking loudly, but Jasmine's steady chatter kept me grounded. For the first time in days, I felt a tiny flicker of normalcy, like maybe the world hadn't completely fallen apart.

As the lunch period wound down, Jasmine leaned in closer, her voice dropping slightly. "Hey, if you want, you can come over this weekend. My mom's making spaghetti, and you know how much she loves feeding people."

I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. My instinct was to say no, to avoid going anywhere near her house. It was right next from mine, where everything had happened. The thought of seeing the charred remains, of standing so close to the place where my mother had died, sent a cold shiver through me. I could already picture the ash-streaked walls and broken windows, the smell of smoke still lingering in my memory even after all this time.

"I don't know," I said quietly, my voice wavering. My gaze dropped to my hands, which were fiddling with the edge of my paper bag. "I'll think about it."

Jasmine's grin softened, and for a moment, I thought she might press me, but she didn't. "That's cool," she said, her tone easy. "Just let me know, okay?"

I nodded, forcing a small smile, but my stomach twisted at the thought. How could I go back to that street, to face all those memories? It felt impossible, yet a small part of me wondered if it might be what I needed—to take one step closer to moving forward, even if it hurt.

Gym class was the hardest part of the day. The locker room felt suffocating, the air heavy with the mingled scents of sweat and body spray. The noise of the other girls laughing and chatting echoed off the tiled walls, amplifying my anxiety until it felt like the room was closing in on me. I kept my head down as I changed, my fingers fumbling with the laces of my sneakers. I wanted nothing more than to disappear, to fold into myself until no one could see me.

When I finally made my way to the gym, the bright fluorescent lights felt harsh against my eyes. The polished wood of the basketball court gleamed, its surface marred by faint scuffs and smudges from countless games. I lingered near the edge of the group as the coach blew her whistle, dividing us into teams for basketball. The sound was sharp, cutting through the chatter and jolting me into motion.

Trevor was there, standing with his usual group of friends. He didn't look at me, didn't even acknowledge my presence, and I was fine with that. Ever since the fight—a moment I still replayed in my mind more often than I wanted to—he'd kept his distance. The tension between us lingered, unspoken but undeniable, and I was grateful for the space.

The game began, a flurry of motion and noise as kids shouted for passes and sneakers squeaked against the floor. I stayed on the outskirts, catching the ball once or twice but passing it off as quickly as I could. My hands felt clumsy, the ball foreign in my grip, and I avoided direct involvement as much as possible. No one seemed to notice my reluctance, too caught up in the game to pay attention to me, and for that, I was thankful.

At one point, Jasmine waved at me from across the court, her face flushed and smiling as she dribbled the ball toward the hoop. Her energy was infectious, and for a brief moment, I considered joining in. But the thought of stepping into the center of the action, of drawing attention to myself, made my stomach twist. I stayed back, clapping politely when she made her shot and letting the game pass me by.

By the time the final whistle blew, signaling the end of class, I felt drained. It wasn't the physical activity that exhausted me—it was the constant effort of holding myself together, of keeping the cracks from showing. As the others filed out of the gym, I lingered behind, waiting for the locker room to empty out before changing back into my regular clothes. The silence was a relief, a brief reprieve from the noise and chaos of the day.

The final bell rang as I stepped outside, the crisp afternoon air a welcome contrast to the stuffy confines of the school. I spotted Mrs. Blake's car parked near the curb, her familiar silhouette behind the wheel. Her smile was as warm as ever as I climbed into the passenger seat, the scent of her vanilla air freshener instantly calming me.

"How was it?" she asked, her tone gentle but curious.

I shrugged, leaning back against the seat. "It was okay. Just... a lot."

She nodded, her hands steady on the wheel as she pulled away from the school. "That's normal," she said softly. "It'll get easier, Emily. One day at a time."

Her words echoed in my mind as we drove through the quiet streets. I watched the trees blur past the window, their branches swaying in the breeze. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the road, and for the first time all day, I felt a small sense of calm creeping in.

The day had been hard—every moment a battle against the heaviness in my chest—but I'd made it through. And with each small step, each ordinary moment, I felt a little closer to finding my footing again. The road ahead still seemed long and uncertain, but with Mrs. Blake's steady presence beside me, I felt a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, I could keep going.

As we got back home, Mrs. Blake suggested a trip to the mall. "We could all use a little break," she said, her tone light and encouraging. Sam and Lily immediately lit up, their excitement bubbling over as they started debating which stores they wanted to visit.

"The arcade first," Sam declared confidently.

"No way, the toy store!" Lily shot back, crossing her arms.

Their lively back-and-forth brought a faint smile to my face. At first, I hesitated. The weight of the past week still hung heavy, and the idea of being in a busy, bustling mall felt overwhelming. But Mrs. Blake's gentle encouragement, paired with her warm smile, nudged me out of my hesitation.

"You don't have to do anything you're not ready for," she said softly, her hand resting briefly on my shoulder. "But it might feel good to get out for a bit."

"Okay," I said at last, the smallest flicker of curiosity sparking in my chest. Maybe she was right.

The mall was alive with energy, its bright lights and colorful storefronts a stark contrast to the quiet heaviness I'd been carrying. The air was filled with the hum of conversations, the clinking of trays in the food court, and the faint, enticing smell of cinnamon wafting from a nearby pretzel stand. Sam and Lily darted ahead as soon as we stepped inside, their laughter blending into the crowd as they debated their first stop.

I trailed behind with Mrs. Blake, taking in the bustling scene around me. The bright displays in the windows showed mannequins dressed in vibrant outfits, shelves lined with gadgets and toys, and racks of sparkling accessories. The normalcy of it all was strangely comforting, a reminder that the world hadn't stopped spinning, even if mine felt like it had.

"What about you, Emily?" Mrs. Blake asked as we strolled along, her tone warm and inviting. "Anywhere you want to go?"

I shrugged, unsure. "Not really. I'm fine just walking around."

"Fair enough," she said, her smile kind. "We'll wander for a bit and see where the night takes us."

As we passed a colorful sign advertising the mall's mini-golf course, Mrs. Blake's expression softened with nostalgia. "That brings back memories," she said, gesturing toward the entrance. "When I was a kid, this place had the most fun mini-golf course. My friends and I used to spend hours there. There was this one hole—it had a windmill that spun so fast, you had to time your shot perfectly. My friend Jenny always tried to power through it, and the ball would ricochet all over the place. We laughed so hard we could barely stand."

Sam's eyes widened with curiosity. "Did you ever make it through the windmill?"

Mrs. Blake laughed, her eyes twinkling. "Once," she said, holding up a finger. "And when I did, the ball rolled into this little tunnel and came out right by the hole. It was like winning the lottery at ten years old."

Lily giggled, practically bouncing on her toes. "That sounds awesome! Can we play mini-golf sometime?"

"Absolutely," Mrs. Blake said, ruffling her hair. Then she turned to me. "What about you, Emily? Does mini-golf sound like fun?"

I hesitated, the idea of playing mini-golf tugging at a memory of laughter and lightheartedness. "Yeah," I said softly, nodding. "It sounds fun."

As we wandered further, the cheerful chaos of the food court came into view, a sea of families, couples, and friends chatting over trays of food. The smell of fried chicken and soft pretzels mingled with the sugary aroma of ice cream from a nearby stand. Just as I was taking it all in, a familiar voice called out.

"Emily!"

I turned to see Jasmine waving from a table where her family was gathered. She practically leapt out of her chair, weaving through the crowd to reach me, her usual bright energy on full display.

"Hey! What are you doing here?" she asked, her grin wide.

"Just... hanging out with the Blakes," I said, gesturing toward Mrs. Blake, who gave Jasmine a friendly wave.

"That's awesome," Jasmine said. "Mom's here too. You should come say hi."

I nodded, She led me to their table, where her mom, Mrs. Carter, and her younger brother sat. Mrs. Carter greeted me warmly, and her brother, engrossed in his Nintendo Game & Watch, gave me a quick wave before returning to his pretzel.

"It's good to see you, Emily," Mrs. Carter said. "I was wondering how you've been."

"I've been okay," I said softly.

"She's been doing really well," Jasmine chimed in, her enthusiasm a balm to my nerves. "We've got to hang out more. I miss when we used to do stuff all the time."

Her words brought a small, genuine smile to my face. "Yeah, me too."

After a few more minutes of chatting, Jasmine walked me back to where Mrs. Blake and the kids were waiting. "See you at school Monday?" she asked as we parted.

"Yeah," I said, managing a small smile. "See you Monday."

We continued walking through the mall, stopping occasionally to window-shop or let Sam and Lily dart into stores. At one point, Lily tugged on my sleeve, holding up a bag from the toy store with wide, excited eyes.

"Look what I got!" she said, pulling out a colorful puzzle covered in pictures of animals.

"That's cool," I said, reaching out to ruffle her hair. Her grin widened, and she skipped ahead to show Sam.

Mrs. Blake glanced at me as we made our way toward the exit, her expression soft. "You did great today, Emily," she said gently. "It's nice to see you smiling."

I nodded, feeling a little lighter as we stepped out into the cool evening air. The neon lights of the mall reflected on the wet pavement, and the sound of Sam and Lily's laughter filled the quiet night. The day hadn't been perfect, but it had been good. And for now, that was enough.

The weekend arrived with skies as clear as a polished mirror, the sun casting its golden light over the world below. The air was crisp with the unmistakable scent of fall—a mix of dry leaves, damp earth, and the faint smokiness of distant bonfires. It was the kind of morning that begged for jackets left half-zipped and hands cupped around steaming mugs of cocoa.

After breakfast, the usual clatter of plates and laughter at the table began to quiet, settling into the gentle hum of Saturday. Mrs. Blake was the first to break the silence, her voice light yet purposeful. "How about a trip to the park today? We could use some fresh air," she suggested, pausing to look around the table with an encouraging smile. "What do you all think?"

"Yes!" Lily shouted, her brown eyes lighting up like sparklers. She bounced in her seat, her braids swinging wildly as though mirroring her excitement. "Can we fly the kite? Please, please, please?" Her words spilled out so quickly it was hard to tell where one sentence ended and the next began.

Sam didn't bother answering—he was already halfway out of his chair, his mind racing ahead to the soccer ball that had been waiting impatiently in the corner of the garage. "I'm bringing the ball!" he announced as his footsteps thundered down the hallway.

Mrs. Blake chuckled softly, her smile as steady as ever, though the faint lines around her eyes hinted at a week that had likely stretched her patience. She turned to me, her tone gentler now, as though she could sense the weight I'd been carrying. "What about you, Emily? Does the park sound good?"

I nodded, the words caught somewhere in my throat. After the heaviness of the week, the thought of open skies and the whisper of wind through the trees felt like a small, much-needed reprieve. I imagined the sound of leaves crunching underfoot, the laughter of Lily and Sam echoing through the crisp air, and for a moment, I let myself picture a pocket of peace, however fleeting.

As we prepared for the outing, the house buzzed with energy. Lily darted back and forth between the living room and her bedroom, clutching the brightly colored kite that had seen better days but still danced like magic in the wind. Sam reappeared with his soccer ball tucked under one arm and a proud grin stretched across his face. "Ready!" he declared, as though he'd just won some unseen competition.

Mrs. Blake moved efficiently through the house, packing a small bag with the essentials: water bottles, a few granola bars, and the slightly wrinkled picnic blanket she always kept on hand for days like this. She glanced toward me as she folded the blanket neatly. "Why don't you grab a sweater, Emily? It might get chilly later," she said, her tone more motherly than usual.

I did as I was told.

The drive to the park was short, but the silence inside the car was filled with unspoken anticipation. Sam tapped his fingers against the window, humming a tune I didn't recognize, while Lily sat cross-legged, clutching her kite as though it were a treasure she couldn't bear to lose. Mrs. Blake's eyes flicked between the road and the rearview mirror, her quiet watchfulness reassuring in its own way.

When we arrived, the park was alive with the hum of activity, a tapestry of sounds and colors weaving through the crisp autumn air. Families gathered on checkered blankets beneath the sprawling shade of oak and maple trees, their laughter mingling with the rustle of leaves overhead. Children raced across the playground, their sneakers kicking up small clouds of dust, while a dog chased a stick with uncontainable joy, its bark ringing out like a cheerful bell.

Sam darted ahead as soon as we entered the park gates, their excitement like an electric current. Lily and I darted across the grassy field at the park, our laughter carried on the breeze. Mrs. Blake trailed behind, holding a picnic basket in one hand and a straw hat in the other, trying to keep up with our energy.

Lily stopped and turned, squinting up at the sky. "This is a perfect kite-flyin' day," she declared, spreading her arms wide like she was about to take off herself.

I plopped down on the grass and pulled a string from my pocket which was attached to a makeshift kite. It wasn't much—just a tangle of sticks and old cloth from the clothes I wore when I first got to the house —but it'd do. "Think this'll fly?" I asked, holding it up.

Mrs. Blake raised an eyebrow. "Fly? Honey, with the right wind, it'll soar like a hawk. In fact—" She cleared her throat and suddenly adopted a sing-song tone. "Let's go fly a kite!"

I groaned, I knew what was coming next. "Oh, no. Here we go..."

"Up to the highest height!" Mrs. Blake continued, waving her hand dramatically toward the sky.

Lily clapped her hands and joined in without hesitation. "Let's go fly a kite and send it soaring!"

I looked between the two, my face caught somewhere between amusement and embarrassment. "Y'all know we're in public, right? People are lookin'."

But Mrs. Blake and Lily were on a roll, spinning in circles with their arms stretched out as if they were kites themselves. "Up through the atmosphere!" they sang in unison, their voices carrying across the park.

"Up where the air is clear!" Lily added with a flourish.

I couldn't help myself, and bursted out laughing. "Y'all sound like a couple of hens tryin' to sing opera."

"Oh, let's go fly a kite!" they finished triumphantly, collapsing into giggles on the grass.

I shook my head and smirked. "You two are somethin' else, you know that?"

Mrs. Blake leaned back on her elbows, grinning. "Well, darlin', if you're gonna fly a kite, you might as well make a scene doin' it."

Lily nodded sagely. "And we sure did. Now, let's see if that mess of sticks and sheet can actually get off the ground."

I held up my creation, still chuckling. "Alright, but if it gets stuck in a tree, don't say I didn't warn ya."

I watched as Lily started running. Mrs. Blake started setting up the picnic near an oak tree.

"Emily, help me! It won't go up!" she called, tugging at the kite string in frustration. The kite flapped stubbornly against the breeze, refusing to leave the ground.

I hesitated for a heartbeat, then stepped forward, the crunch of leaves underfoot marking each step. "Here," I said, taking the string from her small hands. The fabric of the kite felt light and delicate against my fingertips. "Run that way while I hold it up. You've got to let the wind do the work."

Lily's face lit up, her frustration melting into determination. "Okay!" she said with a quick nod before taking off. Her feet pounded against the grass, and her hair streamed behind her in golden waves as the kite wobbled and sputtered before suddenly catching the breeze.

It was a magical moment. The kite soared higher and higher, its tail twisting like a ribbon in the wind. "It's flying! Look, it's flying!" Lily's laughter bubbled over, loud and carefree, a sound so pure it tugged at my chest.

Sam wasn't far behind, joining the impromptu celebration by running circles around Lily with his soccer ball. He laughed as he dribbled the ball with exaggerated moves, pretending to stumble just to make her giggle. Their joy was infectious, spilling out into the cool air, and I felt a smile creep onto my face despite the lingering heaviness in my heart. For the first time in what felt like ages, the weight there seemed just a little lighter.

Mrs. Blake watched us from a distance, her expression soft and full of quiet pride. I couldn't help but notice the way the sunlight caught her hair, adding a faint golden glow that seemed to reflect her inner warmth. "This," she said quietly, almost to herself, "this is what makes everything worthwhile."

And for a fleeting moment, as the laughter echoed around me and the kite danced against the endless blue sky, I let myself believe her.

Later, as the sun climbed higher, we found a spot under the old oak tree, its sprawling branches offering a sanctuary of shade. The ground was carpeted with dry leaves and scattered acorns, and a gentle breeze rustled through the canopy, making the leaves whisper their secrets. Lily plopped down beside me, her cheeks flushed from running, and eagerly poured out a handful of acorns onto the picnic blanket. "Look at these!" she exclaimed, holding up the biggest one like a trophy. "This one's perfect, isn't it?"

I nodded, smiling faintly. It was hard not to be charmed by her enthusiasm. She started sorting the acorns into piles—biggest to smallest—her focus intense, as if the world depended on her perfect arrangement.

Nearby, Sam was lost in his own world, kicking the soccer ball against the sturdy trunk of the oak tree. Each thud echoed in the quiet space around us. He'd challenge himself with little games, muttering under his breath. "Three hits in a row without missing... almost... yes!" When he finally succeeded, his triumphant shout made Lily giggle.

Mrs. Blake, ever the steady presence, handed out sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and small juice boxes from the picnic bag. She moved with a calm efficiency, her every gesture filled with quiet care. Even in this simple moment, there was something grounding about her, like she could anchor us no matter how turbulent life might feel.

As I unwrapped my sandwich, my gaze drifted to a group of kids playing tag in the open field not far from us. Their laughter rang out like wind chimes, carried on the breeze. One boy stood out to me—not because he was the loudest or the fastest, but because he looked over and waved. He had dark, curly hair and a wide grin that seemed permanently etched onto his face.

I froze for a moment, unsure whether he was waving at me or someone else. But then he jogged over, his sneakers kicking up small puffs of dust. "Hey! You're Emily, right?" he asked, his tone bright and friendly.

I blinked, caught off guard. "Yeah," I said softly, my voice almost getting lost in the rustling of the leaves above us.

"You're in my math class, aren't you?" he continued, his grin widening. "We're playing tag. Want to join us?"

The invitation hung in the air, and I felt a flicker of both excitement and apprehension. I glanced over at Mrs. Blake, hoping for some kind of guidance. She caught my eye and offered me an encouraging nod, her expression warm and reassuring. "Go ahead," she said, her tone gentle. "We'll be right here."

Taking a deep breath, I set my sandwich down and rose to my feet. "Okay," I said, surprising myself as much as him. He grinned again, motioning for me to follow, and together we jogged back toward the group.

The game was already in full swing, a blur of laughter, quick movements, and playful shouts. At first, I hung back, unsure of where to fit in, but the boy—whose name I learned was Tyler—quickly looped me into the chaos. "You're it!" someone shouted, tapping my shoulder before darting away with a mischievous grin.

I hesitated for a split second, then took off after them, my legs pumping harder than they had in weeks. The cool air rushed past me, filling my lungs with something that felt like freedom. My laughter mixed with the others', loud and carefree, and for a little while, the heaviness that usually weighed on me disappeared entirely.

When the game finally ended, and I made my way back to the oak tree, my chest was heaving, my cheeks flushed, and my hair sticking to my forehead. Mrs. Blake looked up from where she was folding the now-empty picnic bag, her smile warm and full of quiet pride. She handed me a bottle of water. "How was it?" she asked.

I twisted off the cap and took a long drink before answering. "Fun," I admitted, the word feeling almost foreign on my tongue. But as I said it, a shy smile tugged at my lips, surprising even me.

"I'm glad," she said softly, her voice wrapping around me like a hug.

As the afternoon wore on, the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky with streaks of pink and gold. We packed up our things, shaking leaves from the blanket and gathering Lily's acorn collection into her tiny hands. Sam carried the soccer ball like it was a trophy he'd won, boasting to anyone who would listen about his latest "moves."

"I kicked it like this," he said, demonstrating in slow motion as we walked back to the car. Lily chimed in with her own stories about the kite, her voice bubbling over with excitement. "It went so high! I bet it almost touched the clouds!"

I listened to their chatter, my steps lighter than they'd been in days. The park had been just a small escape, a fleeting moment of normalcy, but it had reminded me of something I hadn't felt in a long time—hope. Even after everything, there were still good moments to be had.

That evening, after everyone had gone to bed, I found myself sitting on the couch, staring at the darkened TV screen. The faint reflection of my face stared back at me, pale and ghostly in the dim light filtering through the curtains. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that feels almost too loud when you're lost in your thoughts. The only sounds were the occasional creak of the floorboards and the faint hum of the refrigerator, an ever-present reminder of life continuing, even in stillness. My chest felt heavy, like there was a knot tightening with every passing moment, making it hard to breathe.

Mrs. Blake walked into the room, carrying a mug of tea that steamed gently in the cool air. She wore a soft, worn cardigan over her pajamas, her hair slightly tousled from the long day. She paused when she saw me, her eyes immediately softening with concern. Without a word, she crossed the room and sat down beside me on the couch, the cushion dipping slightly under her weight. Her presence was steady and grounding, like a lighthouse in a storm.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked gently, her voice low and soothing, as though she didn't want to disturb the fragile silence of the night.

I shook my head, my gaze dropping to the floor. "No. Just... thinking."

Mrs. Blake didn't press for more. She simply sipped her tea, her calm patience wrapping around me like a warm blanket. That was the thing about her—she never pushed, never demanded answers or tried to fill the silence with empty words. She just sat with me, letting the quiet stretch, creating a space where it felt safe to speak.

The knot in my chest loosened slightly, just enough for me to find my voice. "Can I tell you something?" I asked, my words barely above a whisper.

She set her mug down on the coffee table, turning her full attention to me. "Of course, Emily," she said, her tone as warm and steady as her gaze.

I hesitated, my hands twisting in my lap. The words were right there, just waiting to be spoken, but they felt so big, so heavy. "It's something I've been trying to figure out for a long time," I began, my voice trembling. "Something about me."

She nodded, her expression calm and open, encouraging me to continue. "Take your time," she said softly.

I took a deep breath, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. "Ever since I was about nine, I've always known I wasn't... myself. Back in Folkston, Georgia, people used to say I acted like a tomboy, but it never felt like that explained everything. And some of my friends told me they thought I might be gender fluid." I paused, my voice faltering as I tried to gauge her reaction, but her calm, steady gaze gave me the courage to keep going. "It makes sense to me, because some days, I feel more like a girl, and other days, a boy and sometimes, I don't feel like anything at all."

The knot in my chest loosened slightly as I spoke, but my heart still raced. I looked at Mrs. Blake, expecting confusion or maybe even judgment. But her face softened with understanding, her expression full of quiet compassion.

"Thank you for telling me," she said gently. "That's a big thing to share, and I'm honored that you trusted me with it."

Tears welled up in my eyes, spilling over before I could stop them. "I was scared you wouldn't understand. Or that you'd think it was weird," I admitted, my voice breaking.

Mrs. Blake reached over, taking my hand in hers, her grip firm but gentle. "Emily, there's nothing weird about being true to yourself," she said, her eyes meeting mine with unwavering kindness. "You're figuring out who you are, and that's a journey only you can take. But you're not alone. I'm here, and I'll support you every step of the way."

Her words wrapped around me like a shield, protecting me from the doubts and fears that had been eating away at me for so long. I let out a shaky breath, my shoulders relaxing for the first time in what felt like forever. "Thank you," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion.

"Can I ask how you've been feeling about it?" she asked, her tone careful, as if she didn't want to push too hard. "What's been the hardest part?"

I shrugged, struggling to find the words. "It's hard because I don't always know how to explain it to people. And I'm scared they'll think I'm making it up or just being difficult. It's not like I chose to feel this way."

Mrs. Blake nodded, her expression thoughtful. "That makes sense," she said. "It's not always easy to explain things that feel so personal. But you don't owe anyone an explanation unless you want to give one. And the people who care about you will listen and try to understand."

I wiped at my eyes, a small smile tugging at my lips. "You make it sound so simple."

"It's not always simple," she admitted, a faint smile of her own appearing. "But it's worth it to be honest with yourself and the people who love you. If there's anything you need—anything at all—you just let me know, okay?"

"Okay," I said softly.

She gave my hand a gentle squeeze, her touch grounding me. "And if you want, we can look into ways to help you express yourself. Clothes, hairstyles, whatever makes you feel most like you."

The thought filled me with a quiet sense of hope. "That sounds... nice. Really nice."

Mrs. Blake smiled, her warmth unwavering. "Then we'll do it. Together."

The next morning felt lighter somehow, as if the conversation with Mrs. Blake had lifted a weight I hadn't realized I was carrying. The golden sunlight poured through the kitchen windows, casting a warm glow across the checkered tablecloth. The smell of pancakes mingled with the faint aroma of coffee brewing in the corner, filling the room with a comforting, homely scent.

Lily was already at the table, her high-pitched chatter spilling out in an unbroken stream of excitement. She was talking about her plans to build a fairy garden in the backyard, gesturing animatedly with her fork. Sam, on the other hand, was focused on an entirely different mission: stacking his pancakes as high as gravity would allow, each layer slathered with syrup and butter.

I sat quietly, taking it all in.

Mrs. Blake placed a plate in front of me, the edges still warm to the touch, and gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Good morning, Emily," she said with a warm smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "How did you sleep?"

"Better," I said, my voice softer than I'd intended. For once, I actually meant it.

"Good," she said, her smile widening as she turned to pour a cup of coffee. "That's what I like to hear."

As we ate, I found myself more at ease, even laughing quietly at Sam's dramatic expressions when his pancake tower inevitably toppled over. Mrs. Blake glanced at me occasionally, her expression kind and thoughtful, as if she was quietly trying to gauge how I was feeling without prying.

After breakfast, while the others cleared the table, Mrs. Blake caught my eye and gestured for me to follow her into the living room. The cozy space was filled with morning light, and I noticed the faint smell of lavender from the small vase of dried flowers on the mantle.

"I was thinking," she began, her tone gentle as she leaned against the arm of the sofa. "Maybe today we could go shopping. Just the two of us."

My heart skipped. "Shopping?" I echoed, a mixture of excitement and nerves churning in my stomach.

She nodded, her expression open and encouraging. "We could look for some things that make you feel more comfortable. Clothes, accessories—whatever you'd like. No pressure, of course. Just a chance to explore and see what feels right for you."

The words hung in the air for a moment, and I felt a flicker of hope I hadn't expected. Shopping was never something I'd looked forward to before—it always felt like a performance, like I had to fit into someone else's idea of who I was supposed to be. But this... this sounded different.

"Clothes?" I asked hesitantly, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Whatever you want," she said. "It doesn't have to be anything big. Just a way to start finding things that feel like you."

I nodded slowly, the idea both thrilling and terrifying. "That... that sounds nice. Thanks."

Her smile softened, and she reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "Take your time getting ready. We'll leave whenever you're ready."

As she left the room, I stood there for a moment, letting the idea sink in.

Target was quieter than I expected for a mid-morning trip. The faint hum of pop music played over the speakers, blending with the soft murmur of conversations and the occasional beep of a barcode scanner. Mrs. Blake walked beside me, her presence calm and reassuring as we moved through the aisles. She didn't rush me, letting me take my time, her hands tucked casually in her pockets as if to show there was no agenda, no pressure.

When we reached the clothing section, I found myself drawn to a rack of hoodies. They were simple, with muted colors like charcoal gray, forest green, and navy blue, and the fabrics were soft to the touch. They felt like they could be anyone's, not bound to any particular expectation. I hesitated for a moment before pulling out a gray one, letting my fingers trail over the fleece lining.

"Do you like it?" Mrs. Blake asked, her voice gentle.

I shrugged, the weight of uncertainty pressing against my ribs. "Maybe."

"Why don't you try it on?" she suggested, her tone encouraging but never pushy.

I nodded, clutching the hoodie as I headed toward the fitting rooms. The small, brightly lit space felt both intimate and intimidating. As I slipped the hoodie over my head, the soft fabric enveloped me in warmth. I turned to the mirror, half-expecting to see a stranger staring back. Instead, I saw a version of myself that felt... closer. The hoodie wasn't flashy or overly feminine. It was simple, understated, and—most importantly—it felt like me.

When I stepped out, Mrs. Blake was waiting, her face lighting up with a warm smile as she saw me. "That looks great on you, Emily."

"Really?" I asked, glancing down at the hoodie, still uncertain.

"Really," she said firmly, her eyes meeting mine. "If it feels good, that's what matters."

I nodded, a small, tentative smile tugging at my lips. "It does."

Encouraged, we continued through the store, stopping often as I found myself gravitating toward other items that caught my eye. A pair of dark, slightly tapered jeans fit perfectly—casual and versatile, without feeling like they were meant to be on anyone but me. On a nearby rack, I spotted a flannel shirt in soft, muted tones of blue and white. It felt easy, unassuming, and comforting all at once.

Mrs. Blake held it up, appraising it with a smile. "This would look great layered over one of these plain tees," she said, pointing to a display nearby. I picked out a few T-shirts in neutral colors—black, white, and olive green. They were simple but felt like they could be dressed up or down, depending on my mood.

In the accessories section, a display of hats caught my attention. One in particular—a black baseball cap with an understated logo stitched in gray—stood out. Mrs. Blake noticed and picked it up, placing it gently on my head. "Perfect," she said with a grin.

I laughed, the sound lighter than I'd expected. "You think so?"

"Absolutely," she replied. "It suits you."

By the time we reached the checkout, my arms were filled with bags containing clothes that felt like a fresh start: a mix of casual hoodies, jeans, flannels, and tees, along with a hat that I already knew would become a favorite. The weight of the bags was nothing compared to the lightness I felt in my chest. For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn't trying to fit into someone else's idea of who I was supposed to be. These clothes didn't feel like costumes—they felt like me.

As we walked to the car, Mrs. Blake glanced at me with a knowing smile. "How are you feeling?"

I considered her question, the sunlight warming my face as we stepped outside. "Better," I admitted, my voice steady. "A lot better."

She reached over and gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Good. You deserve to feel like yourself, Emily. Always remember that."

I nodded, holding onto her words as tightly as I held onto the bags in my arms.

Back at home, the warm scent of something baking in the oven greeted me as I stepped through the front door. Before I could set my bags down, Lily came bounding into the room, her energy like a whirlwind. "What did you get?" she asked, her wide eyes darting to the bags in my hands. Without waiting for an answer, she peered curiously into one of them.

"Just some clothes," I said with a small smile, pulling out the gray hoodie to show her.

She nodded approvingly, her face lighting up. "That's cool. You'll look awesome in that." Her voice was sincere, and I could tell she meant it, which made me feel a warmth I couldn't quite put into words.

Before I could respond, Sam strolled by, his usual laid-back expression in place. He gave me a quick thumbs-up, his gaze flicking to the hoodie. "Looks comfy," he said simply, then disappeared into the kitchen, probably in search of the cookies I could now smell more distinctly.

I watched him go, feeling a strange but welcome sense of belonging. It wasn't that they made a big deal out of it, but their reactions felt... natural. Accepting. Like this was just another day, and I was just me.

Dinner that evening was lively, as usual. The warm scent of baked chicken and roasted vegetables filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of rosemary and garlic. The kitchen was alive with the sound of clinking silverware, laughter, and overlapping voices.

Lily was at the center of it all, her storytelling as dramatic as ever. "And then," she exclaimed, waving her fork like a wand, "...and Mrs. Tupy said my drawing was so good, she's going to hang it in the library for everyone to see!"

"That's incredible, Lily!" Mrs. Blake said, her face lighting up with pride. She leaned forward slightly, her enthusiasm genuine. "What's the drawing of?"

"A horse," Lily declared, puffing out her chest. "But not just any horse. It's running through a field of flowers with a rainbow behind it."

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes, his playful skepticism evident. "It's just a drawing."

"It's not just a drawing," Lily snapped, narrowing her eyes at him. "It's art."

Their banter filled the room, the lively energy wrapping around me like a warm blanket. Even as I picked at my food, smiling quietly at their exchange, my thoughts were elsewhere, swirling with emotions I'd been carrying all day.

The creak of the office door opening drew everyone's attention. Mr. Blake stepped into the dining room. His hair was tousled, and he carried the faint air of someone who had been staring at a computer screen for hours.

"Evening, everyone," he said with a quick smile, his voice warm but tinged with fatigue.

"Hi, Dad!" Lily chirped, immediately turning her attention to him.

"Hey, Dad," Sam added, though his tone was more subdued.

"Hi, Mr. Blake," I said softly.

He grabbed a plate from the counter, quickly loading it with chicken, vegetables, and a roll. "Smells great in here," he said, glancing at Mrs. Blake. "Thanks, hon."

"You're welcome," she said, tilting her head at him with mock sternness. "You should take a real break and eat with us."

"Can't tonight," he replied with a chuckle. "Those reports won't finish themselves." He kissed her temple before heading back to his office. "Save me some dessert!" he called over his shoulder.

The sound of his door closing shifted the focus back to the table, where Lily and Sam picked up their debate. I listened quietly, their voices fading into the background as my thoughts surfaced. Before I knew it, the words spilled out.

"I've been thinking a lot about... who I am."

The table fell silent. All eyes turned to me, and I felt heat rush to my cheeks. I hadn't planned to say anything, but now the moment was here, and there was no taking it back.

Mrs. Blake gave me a small, encouraging smile, her eyes warm and steady. "Go ahead, Emily," she said gently. "We're listening."

I hesitated, my hands gripping the edge of the table. "I... I think I want to tell the rest of you something. Something important."

Lily leaned forward, her curiosity practically buzzing. "What is it?"

"I'm gender fluid," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Some days, I feel more like a girl. Other days, I feel more like a boy. And sometimes, I'm somewhere in between."

Mrs. Blake's smiled silently encouraging me as the others took in my words.

"That's cool," Sam said, breaking the quiet. His tone was casual, as if I'd just mentioned what I wanted for dessert.

"Yeah," Lily added, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Does that mean you'll wear fun clothes or do cool hairstyles?"

I blinked, taken aback by how easily they accepted what I'd said. "Maybe," I replied, a small smile forming on my lips. "I'm still figuring it out. But I like my hair the way it is. There's so much I can do with it—masculine and feminine."

"That's awesome," Lily said brightly. "I bet you'd look cool no matter what."

Mrs. Blake reached over and placed a hand on mine, her touch grounding me. "You're right, Emily—there's so much you can do with it. And however you choose to express yourself, we're here for you."

"Thanks," I said, glancing around the table. "That means a lot."

"What about pronouns?" Lily asked, tilting her head.

"They/them," I said, my voice steadier now. "But she/her is fine, too. I'm okay with both."

"Got it," Sam said with a quick nod, as if I'd just given him simple instructions.

The conversation naturally shifted back to Lily's art and Sam's soccer game, but something had changed. The lightness in my chest felt like breathing fresh air after being cooped up inside for too long.

After dinner, as I dried the dishes and Mrs. Blake washed them, she glanced at me, her expression soft and kind. "You were brave tonight, Emily," she said, her voice low enough that the others wouldn't overhear. "I'm proud of you."

"Thanks," I said softly, the warmth of her words lingering like a hug.

It had been almost a month since the air turned crisp and the leaves started falling in waves of orange and gold. The Blake household was buzzing with excitement as Halloween night approached, the scent of pumpkin-scented candles mingling with freshly baked cookies in the kitchen. Sam and Lily had spent the entire afternoon perfecting their costumes, and now, the living room was a whirlwind of glitter, fabric scraps, and last-minute adjustments.

Sam was dressed as a pirate, his striped shirt slightly too big, his fake beard crooked, and a plastic sword tucked into a belt that he'd salvaged from his dad's old costume stash. His hat was tilted at an angle, giving him an air of roguish charm—or so he claimed.

Lily, in contrast, had transformed into a fairy so dazzling she looked as though she'd been plucked straight from a storybook. Her wings shimmered under the warm glow of the overhead lights, catching every flicker as she twirled, her sparkly wand leaving trails of glitter in her wake.

"Emily, are you sure you don't want to dress up?" Mrs. Blake asked as she carried bowls of candy to the door, arranging them in neat rows for trick-or-treaters. She paused, glancing at me on the couch with a hint of concern. Her eyes, warm and encouraging, felt like an invitation rather than a push.

I shrugged from my cozy spot, nestled under a blanket with a book in my lap. "I'm good. I'll just help hand out candy."

Lily frowned, fluttering her wings with exaggerated drama. "You could be anything you want! It's Halloween!" she declared, spinning toward Sam as though to drive her point home. "Even Sam's dressing up, and he's usually boring."

"Hey!" Sam protested, fumbling with his eye patch. "I'm not boring! I'm... calculated."

Mrs. Blake chuckled, her laughter light and familiar, like the sound of home. "You don't have to dress up if you don't want to, Emily. But you're welcome to join the fun."

Her words lingered in the air, making me pause. Halloween wasn't just about costumes; it was about letting yourself be something—or someone—different for a night. It was about fun, laughter, and maybe even finding a little courage. My book suddenly felt less interesting. I shifted, the thought bubbling up before I could stop it.

"Actually..." I began, pushing off the couch. "I think I have an idea."

Mrs. Blake's face lit up, her curiosity evident. "Well, don't keep us waiting!"

I disappeared into my room, my mind racing as I pulled open drawers and sifted through my closet. It wasn't about being flashy; it was about being me. After some digging, I found just what I needed. I tugged on my favorite flannel shirt over a plain black tee and slipped into my new jeans. The baseball cap I'd bought on a whim at Target was the finishing touch.

When I emerged twenty minutes later, the chaos in the living room stilled.

"Cool!" Lily exclaimed, spinning in place so her wings sparkled under the lights. "What are you supposed to be?"

"Just... me," I said with a small smile. "But maybe a little cooler."

Sam gave a mock approving nod. "Not bad. Better than a fairy, at least."

"Sam!" Lily shrieked, chasing him around the room with her wand.

Mrs. Blake beamed at me, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "I love it, Emily. You look great."

"Thanks," I said, warmth blooming in my chest that hadn't been there earlier. It wasn't about blending in or standing out—it was about feeling comfortable in my own skin, even on a night meant for transformation.

The doorbell rang, and the first trick-or-treaters of the evening spilled onto the porch, giggling and shouting, their costumes ranging from classic witches to superheroes. I grabbed a bowl of candy, grinning as I handed out handfuls to the kids, their excitement infectious.

For the first time, I felt like I was part of the fun—not just watching from the sidelines. And in a way, that made this Halloween the best one yet.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the streets came alive with the glow of jack-o'-lanterns and the echo of children's laughter. Costumed kids dashed from house to house, their excitement sparking energy in the cool autumn air. The faint rustle of fallen leaves accompanied their footsteps, and the scent of woodsmoke lingered in the breeze.

Inside the Blake house, Sam and Lily had stationed themselves by the door, racing to answer every ring of the doorbell. Sam, still in his pirate costume, swung his plastic sword with dramatic flair as he opened the door, while Lily's fairy wings fluttered as she twirled to present the candy. Their enthusiasm was infectious, and I found myself smiling as I watched them.

"Emily, come look!" Lily called out as a group of kids dressed as superheroes posed dramatically on the porch. Their costumes, complete with capes and masks, looked store-bought but no less magical under the porchlight.

I joined her by the door, grabbing the candy bowl. "Cool costumes!" I said, laughing as one of the kids pretended to save the others from an invisible villain. The youngest in the group, a toddler in a homemade Captain America suit, shyly held out their pumpkin-shaped bucket. I knelt down, dropping an extra handful of candy in. "For the hero," I said, earning a wide grin.

As the night wore on and the steady stream of trick-or-treaters slowed, Mrs. Blake suggested we take a walk around the neighborhood. Sam and Lily leapt at the idea, already pulling on their jackets over their costumes.

"Come on, Emily!" Lily urged, tugging at my arm. "It'll be fun!"

I hesitated, but the excitement in her eyes made it hard to refuse. "All right, all right," I said, grabbing my hoodie. "Let's go."

The neighborhood was a feast for the senses. Glowing jack-o'-lanterns lined driveways, their carved faces flickering with every gust of wind. Some houses had gone all out, with cobwebs draped over bushes, tombstones lining front yards, and spooky music drifting from hidden speakers. One house even had a fog machine, the mist swirling around the feet of visitors as eerie laughter echoed from somewhere unseen.

We stopped in front of a house with an elaborate display: skeletons posed as if playing poker on the lawn, a ghostly figure swinging from a tree, and glowing red eyes peering from the shadows of the porch. Lily squealed with delight, dashing forward to examine every detail, while Sam challenged one of the skeletons to a mock duel, his sword clanging against the plastic bones.

"Careful, Sam!" Mrs. Blake called, laughing. "You don't want to lose to a skeleton."

I found myself laughing, too, the weight of the past few weeks lifting with each step we took. The cool night air felt refreshing, and the sense of community that Halloween brought was oddly comforting.

As we continued our walk, Sam spotted a small crowd gathered outside the community center, their faces lit by strings of orange lights. "What's going on there?" he asked, pointing toward the buzz of activity.

Mrs. Blake smiled knowingly. "That's the haunted house. They set it up every year. Want to check it out?"

"Yes!" Sam and Lily shouted in unison, practically vibrating with excitement.

"What about you, Emily?" Mrs. Blake asked, her tone gentle but encouraging.

I hesitated, the idea of a haunted house making my stomach flip. But the anticipation in Sam and Lily's eyes was hard to resist. "Sure," I said with a shrug. "Why not?"

The line outside was short, but the spooky atmosphere was already setting the mood. Creepy music played from hidden speakers, mingling with faint screams from inside the building. The entrance was draped in black fabric, with flickering lights casting eerie shadows across the walls.

As we stepped inside, the air grew noticeably cooler, the temperature drop sending a shiver down my spine. The first scare came quickly: a skeleton lunging from behind a wall with a loud rattle. Lily screamed, grabbing my arm, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and delight.

"Did you see that?" she whispered, her voice shaking.

"Yeah," I said, laughing. "Pretty creepy."

Sam marched ahead, determined to prove his bravery. "It's not that bad," he declared, puffing out his chest. But his bravado crumbled the moment a clown with glowing eyes jumped out, letting loose a maniacal laugh. Sam yelped, stumbling back into Mrs. Blake.

"Not scared, huh?" I teased, unable to hide my grin.

He shot me a sheepish look, muttering, "It just surprised me, that's all."

The haunted house was a whirlwind of jump scares, flickering lights, and eerie decorations. Each room was more elaborate than the last, with fog-covered floors and ghostly figures that seemed to appear out of nowhere. By the time we emerged into the cool night air, we were all laughing, the adrenaline buzzing in our veins.

"That was amazing!" Lily declared, skipping ahead, her wings bouncing with every step.

"I think my heart stopped a couple of times," Mrs. Blake said with a chuckle. "What about you, Emily? Did you survive?"

"Barely," I said, still catching my breath but smiling.

As we walked back home, Sam and Lily chattered excitedly about their favorite parts of the haunted house, already plotting how they'd convince Mrs. Blake to take them again next year. I trailed behind them, soaking in the moment.

Halloween wasn't just about the costumes or the candy. It was about the connection, the laughter, and letting go—even if just for one night. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn't just watching from the sidelines. I was part of it. And that was enough.

As Mrs. Blake pulled the car into the driveway, the headlights illuminated the jack-o'-lanterns on the porch, their flickering faces casting eerie shadows across the steps. Before the engine was even off, Lily and Sam scrambled out of the car, their voices overlapping as they excitedly relived every moment of the haunted house.

"Did you see the vampire that popped out of the coffin?" Lily squealed, clutching her wand like it was her lifeline.

"Yeah, but the clown was way scarier," Sam argued, swinging his plastic sword for emphasis. "I bet I could've taken him down, though."

Their laughter echoed as they rushed up the steps, already competing to see who could reach the door first. I lingered in my seat, my hand resting on the seatbelt buckle as I watched them disappear into the house, their excitement spilling out into the quiet night.

"Mrs. Blake?" I said hesitantly, my voice breaking the silence in the car. I turned to face her, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my hoodie.

"Yes, Emily?" she asked, her tone as gentle and patient as always. She glanced at me, her expression soft in the dim light from the dashboard.

I took a deep breath. "There's a Halloween party down the street. Some kids from school invited me. Do you think I could go?"

Her brows lifted slightly, and she studied me for a moment. "A Halloween party?" she repeated, her tone thoughtful rather than dismissive. "Do you know whose house it is?"

"Yeah," I said quickly. "It's at Taylor's place. She's in my English class. A bunch of kids from school will be there."

She nodded slowly, considering my request. "How long do you plan to stay?"

"Not too late," I promised. "Just an hour or two. I'll walk back as soon as it starts winding down."

She tapped her fingers lightly on the steering wheel, her eyes scanning my face. Finally, she gave me a small smile. "Okay. You can go. Be careful, though. Stick with people you know, and call me if you need anything. I'll leave the porch light on for you."

Relief washed over me, a mixture of gratitude and excitement bubbling up in my chest. "Thanks, Mrs. Blake," I said, my voice more confident now.

As I climbed out of the car, the cool night air wrapped around me, carrying the faint sounds of laughter and distant music from the neighborhood. Mrs. Blake waited until I was on the porch before she backed out of the driveway, giving me a small wave through the window.

I stood there for a moment, staring down the street toward the glow of lights spilling from Taylor's house. The faint thump of bass reached my ears, mingling with the murmur of voices and occasional bursts of laughter.

I adjusted my hoodie, took a steadying breath, and started walking, the crunch of leaves under my sneakers grounding me with each step. It wasn't just a party—it was a chance to step out of my comfort zone, to let myself be part of something.

The party was in full swing by the time I arrived. Taylor's house stood out against the quiet street, its glowing orange lights and draped cobwebs turning it into a beacon of Halloween mischief. Laughter and music spilled into the crisp night air, and on the front lawn, kids in costumes gathered in animated clusters, their faces lit by the eerie glow of jack-o'-lanterns. A group I vaguely recognized from school waved as I passed, their plastic pumpkins full of candy rattling as they moved.

The moment I stepped inside, the warmth of the house enveloped me, carrying with it the sweet scent of popcorn and caramel. The living room had been transformed into a chaotic dance floor, furniture pushed aside to make way for kids attempting moves that ranged from hilariously awkward to surprisingly skilled. Over by the fireplace, a group of girls shrieked with laughter as they took turns bobbing for apples, water sloshing onto the floor with every failed attempt.

"Emily!" Jasmine's familiar voice cut through the noise. I turned to see her waving enthusiastically from the snack table, her black witch hat tilted precariously to one side. She grinned as I approached.

"You made it!" she said, tossing a piece of candy corn into her mouth. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

"I almost didn't," I admitted, scanning the room. The energy in the house was electric, and I couldn't help but feel drawn in. "But it looked like fun."

"It is," Jasmine said, grabbing a cup of punch. "You want to dance?"

I hesitated. Dancing wasn't exactly my thing, but the pulsing beat of the music and the carefree atmosphere made it hard to say no. "Sure," I said, my lips curving into a small smile. "Why not?"

We joined the crowd on the makeshift dance floor, and for a while, I let myself get swept up in the moment. Jasmine twirled dramatically, nearly colliding with a boy dressed as a zombie, and her exaggerated movements had me laughing so hard my sides ached. For the first time in weeks, I felt light, as if I could finally breathe.

When the music slowed, we headed back to the snack table, our faces flushed and our laughter quieter but still lingering. That's when I noticed the drinks—tucked almost out of sight but still unmistakable. Among the soda cans and punch bowls were a few bottles of beer. The sight of them made my stomach twist, a memory stirring from a place I didn't want to revisit.

I reached for one without thinking, the cool glass heavy in my hand.

"Emily," Jasmine said sharply, her voice cutting through the buzz in my head. She glanced at the bottle, then back at me, her brows furrowing in concern. "What are you doing?"

"It's just one," I said casually, popping the cap. "No big deal."

Her expression hardened. "You don't need that."

I ignored her, bringing the bottle to my lips. The bitter taste hit me like a jolt, both familiar and unsettling, but I forced it down, convincing myself it wasn't a big deal. "Relax, Jasmine. I'm fine."

She didn't look convinced, but she didn't push. Instead, she stayed close, her presence a quiet reminder of the line I was crossing.

The first bottle went down too easily. Then came another. The edges of the room began to blur, the vibrant decorations and laughing faces merging into a hazy swirl. My voice grew louder, my laughter more reckless. Jasmine's worry was a constant undercurrent, but I shrugged it off, telling myself it didn't matter. For the first time in a long time, I felt free—or at least, I thought I did.

The hours slipped away, and when the party began to wind down, Jasmine appeared by my side, her tone no longer gentle. "You're done," she said firmly, grabbing my arm. "I'm walking you home."

"I'm fine," I mumbled, stumbling slightly as she led me out the door. The cool night air hit me like a slap, but it did little to clear the fog in my head. My steps were unsteady, and regret began to seep in, slow and heavy.

We reached the house, its porch light glowing like a quiet sentinel. Mrs. Blake was waiting, her arms crossed, her expression calm but heavy with unspoken disappointment. Jasmine tightened her grip on my arm as we climbed the steps.

"She's home," Jasmine said softly, her voice laced with an apology she didn't owe.

Mrs. Blake nodded, her eyes scanning me carefully. "Thank you, Jasmine," she said, her tone polite but clipped. "I'll take it from here."

I avoided her gaze as Jasmine let go of my arm and turned to leave. The silence between me and Mrs. Blake was unbearable, her calm composure somehow worse than if she'd yelled.

"We'll talk about this tomorrow," she said quietly, her voice steady but firm. She guided me inside, her hand light on my shoulder, and I could feel the weight of her disappointment pressing down on me.

I barely made it to my room before collapsing onto the bed, the events of the night swirling in my mind. The laughter, the drinks, the fleeting moments of freedom—it all felt so far away now, replaced by a sinking guilt that made my stomach churn.

As I closed my eyes, the image of Mrs. Blake's expression lingered, a reminder of the consequences waiting for me in the morning. For now, though, all I could do was hope for sleep and try not to drown in the regret.

The house was eerily quiet when I woke up, the kind of stillness that only emphasized the throbbing in my head and the dryness in my mouth. I groaned, rolling over and pulling the blanket tighter around me, but the events of the night before came rushing back like a tidal wave—Jasmine's worried expression, the beer in my hand, the laughter that had turned sour, and finally, Mrs. Blake's face waiting for me on the porch.

I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could rewind time, but there was no escaping it. I'd messed up, and now I had to face the fallout.

Dragging myself out of bed, I stumbled to the bathroom. The cold splash of water on my face was a temporary relief, but it did little to wash away the regret. As I stared at my reflection, my tired eyes and pale face stared back, silently reminding me of my choices.

The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and toast as I made my way downstairs, my footsteps slow and deliberate. Mrs. Blake was seated at the table, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug, the sunlight filtering through the curtains casting soft patterns on the walls. She looked up as I entered, her face calm but unreadable.

"Morning," I mumbled, sliding into the chair across from her. My voice sounded small, like it didn't belong to me.

"Morning," she replied, her tone steady. She took a sip of her coffee, the movement slow and deliberate, then set the mug down with a soft clink. Her hands folded neatly on the table in front of her, a gesture that somehow made the moment feel even heavier. "We need to talk about last night."

I nodded, the twisting knot in my stomach tightening. The words I wanted to say stuck in my throat, but I forced them out. "I'm sorry," I said, my voice quiet. "I shouldn't have drunk anything. It was stupid."

Her gaze softened slightly, but the firmness in her eyes remained. "It was a poor choice, Emily. Drinking like that, especially at your age, can have serious consequences." She leaned forward slightly, her tone still calm but laced with concern. "What if something had happened to you? What if Jasmine hadn't been there to help you get home safely?"

I swallowed hard, my eyes fixed on the grain of the wood table. "I know. I... I wasn't thinking."

Her voice softened, but the seriousness didn't waver. "I understand that you've been through a lot, Emily. I do. But turning to alcohol isn't the answer. It won't solve anything. My job is to keep you safe, and I need to know that you'll make choices that help with that—not put yourself in harm's way."

Her words hit like a hammer, not because they were harsh but because they were true. I nodded, my throat tight. "I'm sorry," I repeated, barely above a whisper.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, she reached across the table and placed a hand over mine. The warmth of her touch was unexpected, and it made my chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with regret.

"I appreciate your apology," she said gently. "What matters now is what we do moving forward. I want you to take some time to think about what led to last night and how you can handle things differently in the future."

Her understanding tone eased some of the weight pressing down on me, but the guilt lingered, heavy and unrelenting. "Okay," I said, nodding, my voice shaky. "I will."

She leaned back slightly, letting her hand fall away, and reached for her mug again. "Also," she added after a moment, "Jasmine called this morning to check on you. She was worried."

Guilt surged through me, sharper than before. Jasmine had been nothing but a good friend, and I'd ignored her, brushing off her concern like it didn't matter. "I'll apologize to her too," I said quickly. "She was just trying to help, and I didn't listen."

Mrs. Blake nodded, her eyes softening further. "Good. She's a good friend, Emily. You're lucky to have her."

I let those words sink in, a quiet reminder of the people who cared about me even when I didn't deserve it. For a moment, neither of us spoke, the only sound the distant ticking of the clock on the wall. The sunlight moved slightly, creeping further across the table, as if urging me to move forward, to take the next step.

"Thank you," I said finally, my voice steadying. It wasn't much, but it was all I could offer.

Mrs. Blake gave me a small smile, the kind that was equal parts encouragement and reassurance. "You're welcome. Now, go have some breakfast. You'll feel better with something in your stomach."

I nodded, standing slowly and heading to the kitchen counter. As I reached for the bread, I glanced back at her, still seated at the table, her coffee in hand. She wasn't just disappointed in me—she cared. And maybe that was the hardest part to face.

As I slid the bread into the toaster, I thought about Jasmine, about Mrs. Blake, and about the choices I'd made. There was no undoing last night, but I could decide what came next. For the first time, I felt a small flicker of hope, fragile but real. It wasn't too late to make things right.

The rest of the day unfolded in a subdued quiet. I stayed in my room for most of it, the weight of my thoughts pressing down like a heavy blanket. Mrs. Blake's words echoed in my mind, each one planting a seed of reflection I couldn't ignore. Every so often, I'd glance at my phone, the urge to call Jasmine twisting in my chest. But what would I even say? How could I fix what I'd done?

It was mid-afternoon when I finally worked up the courage. My fingers trembled as I dialed her number, and the sound of the ringing felt like it lasted an eternity. When she picked up, her voice was hesitant, cautious.

"Emily?"

"Hey," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I took a shaky breath, gripping the phone tightly. "I just... I wanted to say I'm sorry. For last night. You were right, and I shouldn't have drunk anything. It was stupid, and I wasn't thinking."

There was a pause on the other end, and I braced myself for her response. Finally, she sighed, the sound a mix of relief and lingering worry. "I was really worried about you, Emily. You've been through so much already. I just didn't want you to do something you'd regret."

"I do regret it," I admitted, the words spilling out in a rush. "I regret all of it. Thanks for helping me get home. I don't know what I would've done without you."

"That's what friends are for," she said, her tone softening. "But promise me something, okay?"

"What?"

"Promise me you'll be more careful. That you'll think twice before doing something like that again."

Her words were firm but gentle, and I could feel the genuine care behind them. I swallowed the lump in my throat, nodding even though she couldn't see me. "I promise."

"Good," she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice now. "And, Emily? Don't be so hard on yourself. One mistake doesn't define you."

After we hung up, a sense of relief washed over me. The knot in my chest loosened, and for the first time since waking up, I felt like I could breathe. Jasmine's forgiveness meant everything, and her words stayed with me, their warmth chasing away the lingering shadows of guilt.

By the time dinner rolled around, the house had regained its usual rhythm. The smell of roasted chicken and mashed potatoes wafted through the air as I joined the table, where Sam and Lily were already in the middle of a spirited debate about their Halloween candy.

"Peanut Butter Cups are the best," Sam declared, stuffing a piece into his mouth.

"No way!" Lily argued, waving a half-eaten lollipop for emphasis. "Chocolate covered wafer bars are better. You can snap them apart and eat them one piece at a time. Peanut Butter Cups are boring."

"Boring?" Sam gasped, feigning offense. "You're boring!"

Mrs. Blake chuckled softly, shaking her head as she placed a bowl of green beans on the table. Her gaze flicked to me every so often, and though she didn't say anything, her expression was full of encouragement—a silent reminder that she was still there for me.

As I listened to Sam and Lily's playful banter, a quiet realization settled over me. The mistakes of the past didn't have to define me. What mattered was how I chose to move forward. With each small step—calling Jasmine, sitting at this table, letting myself be part of the moment—I was proving to myself that I could do better.

After dinner, as the dishes were cleared and the house began to wind down for the evening, I found myself standing by the window, staring out at the moonlit street. The night felt still, peaceful, like a clean slate.

Mrs. Blake passed by, pausing for a moment. "You okay?" she asked softly.

I turned to her, the weight in my chest feeling lighter now. "Yeah," I said, offering her a small smile. "I think I will be."

Her smile mirrored mine, warm and reassuring. "That's all I can ask."

As I headed upstairs to bed, I felt a quiet determination settling in my bones. I wasn't perfect, and I'd made mistakes, but I wasn't stuck. With the support of the people around me and the promise I'd made to myself, I knew I could face whatever came next.

The first day back at school after the weekend felt heavier than usual. As I walked through the front doors, the faint smell of floor polish and the hum of chatter enveloped me, but it did little to ease the weight pressing down on my shoulders. My bag was slung haphazardly over one arm, and I kept my head low, avoiding eye contact. Around me, lockers slammed shut, friends called out to each other, and shoes squeaked on the tile floors, but it all felt distant—like I was underwater, hearing everything through a muffled haze.

Jasmine had promised not to bring up the Halloween party, but I could still feel the tension lingering between us. It wasn't what she said—it was what she didn't say. The concerned glances, the slight hesitation in her voice when we talked. It made my stomach twist with guilt every time.

English class was my first stop, and the teacher, with her uncanny ability to sense when something was off, gave me a small, encouraging smile as I slid into my seat. Her warmth was steady and unobtrusive, and I was grateful she didn't call attention to me. I managed a faint smile in return, then looked down at the worksheet she handed out: a list of poetic devices and a task to identify them in excerpts from famous poems. Normally, English was my favorite class. There was something about dissecting words and their meanings that gave me a sense of control. But today, the words on the page blurred together, my focus slipping away like water through my fingers.

I scribbled answers mechanically, more out of habit than understanding, and let the familiar rhythm of the class wash over me. The teacher read aloud from a poem called Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost, her voice soft yet deliberate, and I clung to the sound, hoping it would ground me.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

By lunchtime, the fog had lifted slightly, and I was feeling a little more like myself. Jasmine met me by the cafeteria doors, and we grabbed our trays, weaving through the bustling room toward our usual table near the windows. The sunlight streaming in cast warm patterns on the table, and the familiar scene—a noisy, chaotic blend of laughter, gossip, and the clatter of utensils—helped settle my nerves.

"So," Jasmine said, unwrapping her sandwich and shooting me a sly grin. "Did you hear about Trevor's costume malfunction at the Halloween party? Apparently, his zombie makeup melted off halfway through, and he ended up looking more like a marshmallow than anything else."

I blinked, caught off guard, then laughed—a real laugh that bubbled up before I could stop it. "Seriously? That's ridiculous. How does that even happen?"

"Cheap face paint," she said with a shrug, taking a bite of her sandwich. "Serves him right for scaring half the freshmen with it. Did you see how he cornered them near the fog machine?"

"I didn't, but I can picture it," I said, shaking my head. "I bet he loved every second of it."

"Oh, he did," Jasmine said with a smirk. "But the universe got him back. By the end of the night, his 'zombie' face looked like someone dipped him in whipped cream."

This reminded me of a movie when Robin Williams was playing a woman. He had to disguise himself, so he used Whipped Cream.

The lightness of the conversation was exactly what I needed. With each joke and story, I felt the tension in my chest ease a little more, like a knot slowly unraveling. The guilt and regret from the weekend were still there, but for the first time, they didn't feel suffocating.

The relief was short-lived, though, as gym class was less forgiving. The Gym teacher announced we'd be running laps, and a collective groan rippled through the gym. The sound of sneakers squeaking on the polished floor and the faint echo of bouncing basketballs from another class filled the space as we shuffled to the track.

I tied my sneakers tightly, trying to ignore the weight of the day creeping back in. Jasmine gave me a mock-competitive grin as she jogged in place beside me.

"Ready to get smoked?" she teased.

I rolled my eyes but couldn't help the small smile tugging at my lips. "Not a chance."

As the whistle blew, the group took off at varying paces. The burn in my legs and the rhythmic pounding of my feet against the track became a welcome distraction from my thoughts. Trevor, who usually found a way to throw out snide remarks, kept his distance today. I didn't know if it was out of apathy or some unspoken truce, but I didn't care. His absence felt like a small mercy.

"Come on, Emily!" Jasmine called as she jogged ahead, glancing back over her shoulder with a smirk. "You're not going to let me win, are you?"

"Not a chance," I said, picking up my pace. My breath came quicker, the cool air of the gym sharp in my lungs, but it felt good to push myself.

Laps blurred together, the steady rhythm of my steps giving me a sense of focus I hadn't felt all day. By the time the whistle blew again, signaling the end of class, my legs ached, and my shirt clung to my back with sweat, but I felt accomplished. Jasmine jogged up beside me as we made our way to the locker room, holding up her hand for a high-five.

"See?" she said, her grin wide and teasing. "You're tougher than you think."

I slapped her hand, a small laugh escaping me. "Guess so."

The warmth of her words lingered as I changed out of my gym clothes. It wasn't much, but it was enough to remind me that I was still here, still trying. The heaviness of the day hadn't vanished, but it had lightened, replaced by something quieter—a determination to keep going, one step at a time.

The rest of the day passed so quickly with notes and lectures. Each class followed its routine, the teachers' voices droning on as they wrote formulas, historical dates, and literary terms on whiteboards. Normally, I would have found comfort in the predictable rhythm of school, but today, it felt more like background noise. My thoughts kept drifting, pulling me back to the weekend and the choices I wished I could take back.

Gym class was the only time I saw Jasmine again, and by then, the tension from the morning had mostly faded. The easy banter we'd shared during laps earlier lingered between us, a reminder that things weren't as broken as I'd feared. She caught my eye once, giving me a small, knowing smile, and I returned it, feeling a little less alone.

By the time the final bell rang, the weight I'd been carrying all day had lightened. Not entirely—I wasn't naïve enough to think everything could be fixed in one day—but it was a start. I packed up my things and joined the steady flow of students pouring out of the classrooms and into the hallways, their chatter echoing off the walls.

Outside, the crisp autumn air hit my face, carrying the faint scent of fallen leaves and distant woodsmoke. The sunlight filtered through the golden and red leaves of the trees lining the walkway, casting dappled shadows on the ground. I paused at the top of the steps, taking a deep breath. The mistakes of the past weekend still lingered in my mind, sharp and uncomfortable, but I realized something as I exhaled: they didn't define me.

Each day was a chance to do better, to take one small step forward. Today, I'd taken that step, even if it had felt shaky at first.

Mrs. Blake's car was waiting in its usual spot near the curb. The sight of it, familiar and steady, brought a small wave of relief. I climbed in, setting my bag on the floor as the soft hum of the radio filled the space. Mrs. Blake glanced at me in the rearview mirror, her expression warm but inquisitive.

"How was school?" she asked, her voice casual but laced with genuine care.

"Better," I said, the word coming out more easily than I expected. And for once, I meant it. It wasn't perfect, but it didn't need to be.

She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she shifted the car into drive. "I'm glad to hear that."

The ride home was peaceful, the rhythmic sound of the tires on the road blending with the soft country tune playing on the radio. I stared out the window, watching the scenery blur past—the golden fields, the occasional house with Halloween decorations still hanging on porches, and the trees swaying gently in the breeze. The air felt lighter, the flicker of hope inside me growing with each passing mile.

When we pulled into the driveway, Mrs. Blake turned off the car but didn't move right away. She looked at me again, her expression thoughtful. "You're doing okay," she said, more of a statement than a question.

I nodded, a small smile tugging at my lips. "I think so."

Her smile widened slightly, and she reached over to give my hand a quick squeeze. "Good. One day at a time, Emily."

As we stepped into the house, the familiar smells of home greeted me—wood polish and something faintly sweet from the kitchen. I set my bag down by the door, feeling a quiet sense of resolve settle over me. Today had been better. Tomorrow could be better too.

The house was still in the early hours of the morning, the silence broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards and the soft rustling of leaves outside. The faint light of the moon spilled through the curtains, casting long shadows across the room. I was deep in sleep when I felt a tug on my blanket, faint at first, then insistent.

Groggy, I blinked into the dim light and made out a small figure standing by my bed. It was Lily. Her hands clutched her side, and her face was pale, almost ghostly in the faint moonlight.

"Emily," she whispered, her voice trembling and weak. "My tummy hurts. Really bad."

I sat up immediately, my heart pounding as the remnants of sleep fled. The sight of her, so small and vulnerable, sent a surge of worry through me. "Where does it hurt?" I asked, sliding out of bed and crouching to her level.

She pointed to the lower right side of her stomach, her hand trembling. "Here. It's sharp, and it won't go away."

"Okay," I said, forcing calm into my voice even as my thoughts raced. "Let's find Mrs. Blake."

I guided Lily out of my room, her steps slow and careful as though every movement hurt. We moved quietly through the house, the air heavy with the kind of silence that makes every sound louder. Mrs. Blake's room was empty, her bed neatly made, and the light off.

"She's not here," I murmured to myself, a knot of unease tightening in my stomach. I checked the kitchen, the living room, even the small bathroom, but she was nowhere to be found.

"Where is she?" Lily asked, her voice barely audible, each word a struggle.

"She might be outside," I said, glancing toward the front door. But the urgency in Lily's face pushed aside the idea of waiting any longer. "Don't worry, Lily. I'll take care of this."

I helped her settle on the couch, grabbing a blanket to drape over her trembling form. She clutched her stomach, her breaths shallow and uneven. The sight made my chest tighten. I picked up the phone, my hands shaking as I dialed 911.

The line rang once, and then a calm, steady voice answered. "911, what's your emergency?"

"Hi," I said, my voice quivering despite my efforts to stay composed. "I'm calling because my friend Lily's stomach is hurting really bad. She says it's sharp pain on the right side."

The operator's tone was reassuring. "Okay. How old is she?"

"She's eight," I said, glancing over at Lily. Her small frame looked even smaller curled up on the couch, her face twisted in pain.

"Is she able to walk? Is she running a fever or vomiting?"

"She can walk, but it's hard for her," I said. "I don't think she has a fever, but I'm not sure."

"Stay with her," the operator instructed. "We're dispatching an ambulance to your address now. Keep her as comfortable as possible. Is there an adult with you?"

"My foster parent, Mrs. Blake, is outside, I think," I said, realizing with a jolt that I hadn't checked the porch.

"Go find her, but stay on the line," the operator said.

I set the phone on the table, speaker on, and opened the front door. The cool night air hit me, crisp and sharp. Mrs. Blake was sitting on the porch, wrapped in a blanket with a cup of tea in her hand. The sight of her, so calm and unaware, made my chest tighten further.

She turned, startled by my expression. "What's wrong?" she asked, setting her cup down as she stood.

"It's Lily," I said, my words tumbling out in a rush. "Her stomach hurts really bad. I called 911, and the ambulance is on its way."

Her face went pale, the calm demeanor replaced by sharp worry. "Good," she said, her voice steady despite her alarm. "Let's go to her."

We hurried back inside. Mrs. Blake knelt beside Lily, stroking her hair and murmuring reassurances. Lily whimpered softly, her pain clear in her every movement.

The distant wail of sirens pierced the night, growing louder with each second. The flashing red and blue lights painted the walls of the living room, a surreal reminder of the urgency of the situation.

When the paramedics arrived, they moved with calm precision, asking questions and assessing Lily's condition. One of them turned to Mrs. Blake, their expression serious. "We need to get her to the hospital quickly to determine the cause of the pain."

Mrs. Blake nodded, her voice steady despite the tears glistening in her eyes. "I'll ride with her."

As they lifted Lily onto the stretcher, she whimpered but didn't protest. Her small hand reached out, and I squeezed it briefly, trying to convey reassurance I wasn't sure I felt.

Mrs. Blake turned to me as the paramedics wheeled Lily toward the ambulance. "You did the right thing, Emily. You acted like part of this family, and I'm proud of you."

Her words caught me off guard, and I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.

As the ambulance pulled away, its sirens fading into the distance, I stood on the porch, the cold air biting at my skin. The quiet returned, heavier now. I stared after the disappearing lights, a mixture of helplessness and determination swirling in my chest.

Lily would be okay. She had to be.

I couldn't go to the hospital. Mrs. Blake had insisted I go to school, promising to call as soon as there was news about Lily. Still, the weight in my chest hadn't lifted since the ambulance had driven off.

I trudged through the school's front doors, my footsteps dragging as I joined the stream of kids hurrying inside. The usual morning buzz of laughter, chatter, and locker doors slamming seemed distant, muffled under the heavy cloud of worry that hung over me.

The hallways were bright, the chatter lively, but none of it felt real. My mind was far away, replaying the moment Lily clutched her side, her face pale and twisted in pain. Every detail felt etched into my brain—the sound of her shaky voice, the way she winced at the slightest movement, the fear in her eyes as the paramedics lifted her onto the stretcher.

I made it to my homeroom and slid into my seat, barely aware of the conversations buzzing around me. A classmate waved a hand in front of my face, snapping me back to reality.

"Hey, Earth to Emily. You okay?" they asked, their tone half-teasing, half-concerned.

"Yeah," I said quickly, forcing a weak smile. "Just tired."

They shrugged and turned back to their conversation, but the brief exchange left me feeling even more out of place.

The morning dragged on, each class blending into the next. Math was a blur of numbers and formulas I couldn't make sense of. History was nothing more than a monotone lecture about events that felt irrelevant compared to what Lily might be going through. Even science, my favorite subject, couldn't hold my attention.

Every so often, I'd glance at the clock, watching the seconds tick by with agonizing slowness. My thoughts were consumed by questions I couldn't answer: Was Lily okay? Had the doctors figured out what was wrong? What if it was something serious?

At lunchtime, I sat at my usual table, picking at my food without appetite. The hum of the cafeteria felt overwhelming—the clinking of trays, the laughter and shouts, the endless swirl of conversations I couldn't follow. My friends chatted around me, their voices a blur.

"Emily, you've barely touched your food," one of them said, their tone concerned.

"I'm just not hungry," I mumbled, pushing a piece of bread around my tray.

"You're not sick, are you?" another asked, leaning in slightly.

"No," I said quickly, not wanting to explain. "I'm fine."

But I wasn't fine. The ache in my chest hadn't eased, and the uncertainty gnawed at me. I wanted to call Mrs. Blake, but I knew I couldn't. What if she was in the middle of talking to the doctors? What if she was in the hospital room with Lily? I couldn't interrupt.

The afternoon classes felt even longer than the morning. The ticking of the clock was like a metronome for my anxiety, each tick a reminder that I still didn't know anything. By the time the final bell rang, I felt like I'd been holding my breath all day.

As I gathered my things and headed for the door, I heard my name over the intercom. "Emily Saunders, please report to the office."

My heart leapt into my throat. Had Mrs. Blake called? Was it about Lily? I hurried to the office, my hands gripping the straps of my backpack tightly. The receptionist greeted me with a kind smile and handed me the phone.

"It's your foster parent," she said softly.

I swallowed hard and took the receiver. "Mrs. Blake?"

"Hi, Emily," she said, her voice calm but tired. "I wanted to let you know that Lily's in surgery. The doctors think it's her appendix. They're confident she'll be okay, but it was a good thing you called when you did."

Relief flooded me, and I felt my knees go weak. "She's going to be okay?"

"Yes," Mrs. Blake said gently. "She'll need some time to recover, but she's in good hands."

"Thank you for telling me," I said, my voice trembling with a mix of emotions.

"You're part of this family, Emily," Mrs. Blake said. "You deserve to know. I'll call you again as soon as the surgery is done."

When the call ended, I stood there for a moment, the tension in my chest slowly easing. Lily was going to be okay. She had to be.

By the time lunch rolled around, I was more distracted than ever. The entire morning had felt like I was walking through a fog, my mind too tangled with worry to focus on anything else. As I entered the cafeteria, the clatter of trays and the hum of conversation seemed louder than usual, grating against my already frayed nerves.

Jasmine was already at our usual table, her tray piled high with food—pizza, a carton of milk, and a slice of chocolate cake she'd probably sweet-talked the lunch lady into giving her. She looked up as I approached, her cheerful expression fading as soon as she saw my face.

"What's wrong?" she asked, setting her tray down and leaning forward, her tone more serious than usual.

I sank into the seat across from her, setting down my lunch bag with little enthusiasm. My stomach churned with a mix of hunger and anxiety, but I couldn't bring myself to eat. I unwrapped my sandwich, more out of habit than appetite, and began picking at the crust.

"It's Lily," I said finally, my voice low. "She woke up this morning in a lot of pain. We had to call an ambulance."

Jasmine's eyes widened, the carefree energy she usually carried replaced by genuine concern. "Oh my gosh," she said, her voice soft but urgent. "Is she okay?"

"I don't know," I admitted, my throat tightening as I spoke. "Mrs. Blake went to the hospital with her, but I haven't heard anything yet. They think it might be something serious."

The words hung between us, heavier than I'd expected them to feel. Saying it out loud made it more real, more frightening.

"That's scary," Jasmine said, her brow furrowing as she reached for her milk but didn't drink it. "But Lily's tough, right? And Mrs. Blake is with her. She'll make sure Lily gets the help she needs. You know that."

I nodded, her words well-meaning, but they didn't quiet the storm of worry in my chest. "I just hate not knowing," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "Not knowing if she's okay, if they figured out what's wrong. It's the waiting that's the worst."

Jasmine rested her chin on her hand, her expression thoughtful. "I get it," she said. "But Lily's got the best possible person with her right now. And, honestly, you did everything right this morning. You called for help, and that's what matters. You were there for her."

Her words hit me in a way I hadn't expected. I'd been so consumed by my worry and guilt for not being at the hospital that I hadn't stopped to think about that.

"Maybe you'll hear something by the end of the day," Jasmine added, giving me a hopeful smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Do you want me to come over later? I can keep you company, maybe help take your mind off things."

"Thanks, Jasmine," I said, managing a small smile of my own. "I'll let you know."

She nodded and started picking at her food, giving me space to process. I stared down at my sandwich, wondering if I should try to eat, but the idea of swallowing anything felt impossible.

Around us, the cafeteria buzzed with the usual chaos—kids laughing, trading food, shouting across tables—but it all felt distant, like I was watching it from behind a thick pane of glass. My thoughts drifted back to Lily. I pictured her small frame on the stretcher, her hand clutching her stomach, her face twisted in pain. The image wouldn't leave me, no matter how much I tried to push it aside.

Jasmine reached across the table and gave my hand a quick squeeze, her way of reminding me she was there. I looked up and nodded, grateful for the gesture even though I didn't have the words to say it.

For the rest of lunch, we sat in silence, the unspoken understanding between us more comforting than any words could have been.

Gym class was next, and I forced myself to change and join the others on the basketball court. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, their harsh glare bouncing off the polished wood floors. The familiar squeak of sneakers and the rhythmic thud of basketballs echoed through the gym, mingling with the shouts of my classmates.

The teacher had us running drills—passing, dribbling, shooting—and for a little while, the physical activity was a welcome distraction. I focused on the rhythm of the game, letting the motion of running and the simple goal of sinking a basket push away the cloud of worry hanging over me.

"Nice pass, Emily!" someone called as I lobbed the ball to a teammate.

I nodded, managing a faint smile. For a moment, I almost felt normal, like my mind wasn't a storm of what-ifs and worst-case scenarios.

Trevor, who usually couldn't resist making some snide comment or trying to show off, was surprisingly quiet today. Whether it was because of our last confrontation or something else entirely, I didn't care. His silence was a small mercy, one less thing to deal with.

But even as I tried to lose myself in the drills, the image of Lily kept surfacing in my mind. I'd see her pale face and pained expression, hear her shaky voice telling me her stomach hurt. It was like a shadow following me, impossible to shake.

By the time the final bell rang, I was both mentally and physically drained. My muscles ached from gym class, but the exhaustion in my chest weighed heavier. I grabbed my bag and headed out of the building, scanning the parking lot for Mrs. Blake's car.

When I spotted her parked near the front, my heart leapt. I picked up my pace, weaving through clusters of students until I reached the passenger door and climbed in.

As soon as the door shut, I couldn't hold back any longer. "How's Lily?" I blurted, the words tumbling out before I even buckled my seatbelt.

Mrs. Blake turned to me, her expression softening in a way that made my heart clench. "She's okay, Emily," she said gently. "The doctors did surgery on her, but she's doing well now. They said it was her appendix. She'll need to stay in the hospital for a few days to recover, but she's going to be fine."

Relief hit me like a wave, and I let out a shaky breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The tension that had been gripping my chest all day started to loosen, and for the first time, I felt like I could breathe again. "That's good," I said quietly, the words almost a whisper. "I was so worried."

"I know," Mrs. Blake said, her voice filled with warmth. "You did so much to help her last night. You stayed calm when it mattered most, and because of you, she got the help she needed. I'm proud of you, Emily."

Her words settled over me like a blanket, comforting and reassuring. I hadn't realized how much I needed to hear them until now. "Thanks," I said, my throat tight with emotion.

"Can we visit her?" I asked after a moment, the thought of seeing Lily and knowing she was okay giving me a glimmer of hope.

"Not tonight," Mrs. Blake said, shaking her head gently. "She needs to rest, but we'll go see her tomorrow after school. How does that sound?"

"Okay," I said, leaning back against the seat as the car hummed to life and we pulled out of the lot. The sky outside was painted in shades of orange and pink as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the streets.

The drive home was quiet, but it wasn't the heavy silence I'd felt earlier. It was softer now, the weight in my chest easing bit by bit. The worry for Lily was still there, but knowing she was safe and on the mend made it bearable.

The next day crawled by with agonizing slowness. Every class felt like it stretched on forever, the ticking of the clock a constant reminder that I wasn't where I wanted to be. When the final bell rang, signaling the end of another long day, I was already halfway out of my seat, gathering my things in a rush.

I hurried through the crowded halls, weaving past clusters of students, and pushed open the heavy front doors. The cool afternoon breeze hit my face as I scanned the parking lot. Mrs. Blake's car was there, parked in its usual spot, and the sight of her calm, warm smile as I climbed in immediately eased some of the lingering worry in my chest.

"Ready to go see Lily?" she asked as we pulled out of the lot, her tone light but tinged with understanding.

"Yeah," I said softly, anticipation mixing with nervous energy. "How is she?"

Mrs. Blake glanced at me briefly before returning her focus to the road. "The nurses say she's doing well," she reassured me. "She's been resting a lot, but she's awake. She's been asking about you."

Her words settled over me like a blanket, comforting and reassuring. The thought of Lily wanting to see me made my chest ache in the best way.

The drive to the hospital felt like a strange contradiction—both too long and too short. I stared out the window, watching the trees blur past, my stomach churning with nervous energy. When we finally pulled into the parking lot, my heart was racing.

Inside, the hospital was a world of its own. The sterile, brightly lit hallways stretched endlessly, the faint hum of machines and muffled voices creating a surreal atmosphere. The sharp scent of antiseptic hung in the air, making everything feel just a little too clean.

Mrs. Blake stopped at the nurses' station, speaking briefly with a nurse who smiled and pointed us down the hall. My footsteps felt heavier with every step as we approached Lily's room, my nerves twisting tighter and tighter.

But when we stepped inside, all the tension melted away.

Lily was propped up in bed, her small frame nearly swallowed by the crisp white sheets and the oversized hospital gown. Her face was pale, but her cheeks had a faint blush, and her eyes sparkled when she saw us.

"Emily!" she said, her voice weak but cheerful, a small smile lighting up her face.

"Hey, Lily," I said, stepping closer to her bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," she replied, her voice soft but steady. "The doctor said my tummy was really sick, but they fixed it."

Mrs. Blake sat on the edge of the bed, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from Lily's forehead. "Your appendix was causing all the trouble," she explained, her tone soothing. "The doctors had to take it out, but you're going to be just fine."

Lily nodded, her eyes drifting to the small stuffed animal sitting on the bedside table. She reached for it, holding it up for me to see. It was a plush giraffe wearing a tiny hospital gown, its stitched-on smile impossibly cheerful.

"The nurse gave me this," she said, her voice tinged with excitement. "Isn't it cute?"

"Very cute," I said, sitting in the chair beside her bed. "I'm glad you're okay, Lily. You really scared me last night."

Her smile faltered, her expression turning serious. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to."

"It's not your fault," I said quickly, leaning forward. "You did the right thing by waking me up. You were really brave."

Mrs. Blake smiled at me, her eyes warm and full of gratitude. "Emily's right. You were very brave, Lily. And Emily did an amazing job taking care of you until the ambulance arrived. She made sure you got help."

Lily's smile returned, her eyes brightening as she reached out to squeeze my hand. "Thanks, Emily. You're the best."

We stayed with her for a while, the tension that had weighed so heavily on me now replaced with a quiet sense of relief. Mrs. Blake read a story from a children's book the nurses had left, her voice soft and comforting as Lily leaned back against the pillows. Her eyelids grew heavier with each word, her small body finally relaxing into rest.

When it was time to leave, Lily's eyes fluttered open briefly. "Will you come back tomorrow?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

"Of course," I said, brushing her hand lightly with my own. "Get some rest, okay?"

She nodded, her eyes closing again as we stepped out of the room.

As we walked back through the hospital's winding hallways, Mrs. Blake turned to me. Her expression was soft, her eyes glistening with emotion. "You handled everything so well, Emily. I'm really proud of you."

Her words settled in my chest, warming me from the inside out. For the first time in days, I felt lighter, the worry that had weighed me down finally beginning to fade.

The drive home was quiet, the kind of silence that didn't need to be filled. As the car hummed along the road, I rested my head against the window, watching the world outside bathed in the soft glow of twilight.

Lily was okay. That was all that mattered.

By the time we got home from the hospital, the day had stretched long and heavy, the weight of worry slowly giving way to exhaustion. The house was quiet when we walked in, the faint ticking of the kitchen clock the only sound. Mrs. Blake shrugged off her coat, sighing deeply as she set her bag on the counter.

"I don't have it in me to cook tonight," she admitted, leaning against the counter with a weary smile. "How about we order Chinese food? It's been a while."

I raised an eyebrow, half-smiling despite myself. "Doesn't Lily hate Chinese food?"

Mrs. Blake chuckled, her laugh light and full of relief now that Lily was on the mend. "Exactly. That's why it's a good time to have it while she's at the hospital. If she were here, she'd complain about everything on the menu. 'Too spicy,' 'too weird,' or 'why does it smell like that?'" she said, mimicking Lily's playful grumbling.

From the table, Sam, who was flipping through a well-worn comic book, perked up at the mention of takeout. His face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. "Yes! Can we get egg rolls? And General Tso's chicken? Oh, and maybe those fried dumplings?"

Mrs. Blake smiled and picked up the phone. "Sure thing. Emily, what about you? Anything special you want?"

"Fried rice is fine," I said, sliding into the chair across from Sam.

He glanced up from his comic, his grin infectious. "You're missing out. The dumplings are the best part. You gotta at least try one."

I rolled my eyes with a small laugh. "We'll see."

Within half an hour, the house was filled with the unmistakable aroma of takeout—savory soy sauce, warm spices, and the tantalizing scent of crispy egg rolls. Mrs. Blake set the steaming bags on the counter, and we all pitched in to unpack the containers. The table quickly became a feast of rice, noodles, chicken, and sauces, each dish promising to be better than the last.

Sam wasted no time piling his plate high, his enthusiasm contagious. "This is the best! I've been craving Chinese food forever!"

Mrs. Blake smirked as she scooped some lo mein onto her plate. "Forever, huh? Didn't we just have pizza two nights ago?"

"Yeah, but pizza's different," Sam said, waving his chopsticks for emphasis. "Chinese food is... epic."

"So, how was school today?" Mrs. Blake asked as we started eating, her tone casual but genuinely curious.

Sam's face lit up again, his energy bubbling over. "We had this huge debate in history class about the Revolutionary War. I argued that spies were the most important part because they got all the secret information. Mr. Keller said I made a good point and gave me extra credit!"

Mrs. Blake beamed. "That's fantastic, Sam. You've been doing so well in that class lately. I'm proud of you."

"Yeah, but then gym was a total disaster," he added, pausing dramatically with an egg roll halfway to his mouth. "Josh tripped over a dodgeball and slammed into the bleachers. It was so loud, everyone stopped and stared. Even Mr. Harris was laughing so hard he couldn't catch his breath."

I couldn't help but laugh, the image of Josh flailing spectacularly flashing through my mind. "Classic Josh," I said, shaking my head.

"Highlight of my day," Sam declared, finally biting into the egg roll with an exaggerated crunch. "What about you, Emily? Anything interesting happen?"

I shrugged, swirling my fried rice around my plate with my fork. "Not much. Just trying to keep up with everything. Jasmine and I talked at lunch, and gym wasn't too bad. No drama for once, which was nice."

"Nice change," Mrs. Blake agreed, sipping her tea with a contented sigh. "It's good to have a calm day every now and then."

The conversation flowed easily as we ate, laughter and stories filling the room. Sam launched into an animated retelling of his debate, complete with dramatic hand gestures that nearly knocked over his plate. Mrs. Blake and I couldn't stop laughing as he got so into it that he accidentally flung a piece of chicken onto the floor.

"Oops," he said, looking sheepish as he picked it up. "Five-second rule!"

"Absolutely not!" Mrs. Blake said, her mock-serious tone making us laugh even harder.

As we finished dinner, the warmth of the food and the company wrapped around me like a hug. The tension of the past couple of days finally began to melt away. Even with Lily still in the hospital, there was something comforting about this moment—a reminder that, no matter what, we could find joy in the little things.

When we started cleaning up, Sam stuffed another egg roll into his mouth and mumbled something that sounded like, "Best dinner ever."

Mrs. Blake shook her head with a laugh. "Let's just hope you don't trip over a dodgeball next, Sam."

"Hey, I'm more coordinated than Josh!" Sam protested, grinning through a mouthful of food.

As I dried the dishes, I couldn't help but smile. For the first time in days, the house felt full of light and laughter, and I felt lighter too.

After dinner, we pitched in to clean up, the rhythm of our teamwork making the chore feel less like work. Sam, as usual, insisted on being in charge of putting away the leftovers. "I've got this," he declared, grabbing the containers and scooping food into them with the enthusiasm of someone tackling a world-changing task.

"You're getting rice everywhere," I pointed out, laughing as a few stray grains fell onto the counter.

"It's part of the process," Sam said with a grin, brushing them into his hand. "Trust me, I'm a pro."

"You're something, all right," Mrs. Blake said with a chuckle as she wiped down the counters.

I took my place at the sink, rolling up my sleeves and plunging my hands into the warm, soapy water. The dishes clinked softly as I scrubbed them, the scent of dish soap mingling with the lingering aroma of dinner. It was a simple, familiar routine, but after the whirlwind of emotions over the past few days, it felt grounding.

By the time we were finished, the kitchen was spotless. The counters gleamed, the table was cleared, and the leftovers were safely tucked away in the fridge—though Sam had already claimed a container of General Tso's chicken for his lunch tomorrow.

"Good work, team," Mrs. Blake said, stepping back to admire the clean kitchen. "We might just survive without Lily for a few days."

"Barely," Sam quipped, earning a playful swat on the shoulder from Mrs. Blake.

I laughed, drying my hands on a towel and stretching my arms. The tension I'd been carrying all day had eased, replaced by a sense of calm I hadn't felt in a while.

As I headed upstairs to get ready for bed, Mrs. Blake's voice called after me. "Don't forget, we'll visit Lily again tomorrow. She'll want to hear all about your day."

I paused on the stairs, turning back with a smile. "I'll be ready."

Her words stayed with me as I climbed the stairs, the thought of seeing Lily again bringing a wave of comfort. I imagined her small, bright smile and the way her eyes lit up whenever she was excited. She'd probably want to hear every detail about Sam's dodgeball mishap or our Chinese food adventure, and I looked forward to telling her all of it.

The quiet of my room wrapped around me as I changed into my pajamas and got into bed. The faint hum of the heater and the distant sound of Sam's music drifting through the walls created a soothing backdrop. For the first time in days, the weight in my chest felt lighter.

As I settled under the covers, I stared at the ceiling, letting my thoughts drift. The past few days had been a whirlwind, but tonight, there was a stillness that felt almost sacred. For now, everything seemed a little more manageable, and I was grateful for these small moments of normalcy—the laughter at the dinner table, the teamwork in the kitchen, the promise of seeing Lily again.

With that thought, I closed my eyes, the edges of sleep tugging at me. Tomorrow would come with its own challenges, but for now, I felt ready to face whatever was next.

The next afternoon, Mrs. Blake picked up Sam and me from school, her car already stocked like a mini care package. A small bouquet of colorful flowers sat on the seat beside her, and a grocery bag filled with snacks rustled as Sam climbed into the backseat with his usual enthusiasm.

"Can I give her the flowers?" he asked, holding the bouquet as though it were a rare artifact.

"Of course," Mrs. Blake said with a smile, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. "I'm sure she'll love them."

Sam inspected the bouquet with a serious expression. "Good. I made sure they didn't look too girly. No frilly stuff."

I snorted. "They're flowers, Sam. They're inherently frilly."

"Not if you squint," he shot back, narrowing his eyes dramatically as if to prove his point.

The drive to the hospital was a mix of Sam's animated stories and Mrs. Blake's occasional attempts to steer him back on topic. He launched into a detailed recount of how his class had witnessed a science experiment go hilariously wrong.

"And then—get this—the volcano exploded, but instead of lava, it was pink foam! It hit Mr. Keller right in the face. He tried to act all serious, but he looked like a strawberry milkshake!" Sam burst into laughter, and even Mrs. Blake couldn't hide her grin.

"Sounds like a productive school day," I said, shaking my head.

"It was educational," Sam said, smirking. "I learned what not to do if I ever build a volcano."

As we pulled into the hospital parking lot, my thoughts shifted back to Lily. The weight in my chest from the past few days hadn't completely lifted, but seeing Sam so relaxed helped lighten the mood.

Inside, the hospital smelled the same as before—sterile and faintly medicinal—but Lily's room was a cheerful contrast. The walls were decorated with colorful balloons and get-well cards, and a small teddy bear sat on the windowsill, its red bow slightly crooked.

When we stepped into the room, Lily was sitting up in bed, her face lighting up like a firework when she saw us. "Sam! Emily!" she called out, her voice hoarse but full of excitement.

"Hey, kiddo," Mrs. Blake said, leaning in to kiss her forehead. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Lily said, her grin widening as Sam presented her with the flowers. "These are so pretty! Thank you!"

Sam puffed out his chest like he'd just delivered a medal of honor. "They're not as cool as soccer, but they'll do."

Lily giggled, cradling the bouquet like a treasure. "You're so weird."

"Thank you," Sam said with a mock bow. "I aim to inspire."

I sat down in the chair beside her bed, smiling at the sight of her looking more like herself. "You look a lot better than the last time I saw you," I said honestly.

"I feel a lot better," she replied, setting the flowers carefully on her bedside table. "The nurse said I might even get to go home today."

Mrs. Blake nodded. "The doctor just needs to sign the discharge papers, and then we'll be good to go. But don't get too excited. You're still on light duty for a while."

"What's light duty?" Lily asked, frowning.

"Basically, no running marathons or climbing Mount Everest for the next couple of weeks," I said with a grin.

"Aw, man," Sam said, slapping his forehead dramatically. "I was just about to invite her on my next Everest expedition."

Lily giggled again, shaking her head. "You're impossible."

While we waited, Lily filled us in on her hospital adventures, which sounded less like a dramatic medical recovery and more like a sleepover with a lot of Jell-O.

"The nurses kept giving me extra Jell-O cups," she said, holding up her fingers. "I had three! And they were all different colors!"

Sam leaned forward, his eyes wide. "Three colors? Whoa. You're living the dream, kid. What's next? Unlimited pudding?"

"Maybe," Lily said with a grin.

Sam jumped up and pretended to reenact her Jell-O adventure, crouching low as if sneaking around and miming grabbing cups. "There I was," he narrated in an exaggerated whisper. "The room was dark. The nurse was distracted. And BAM! I snagged the legendary Triple Jell-O Combo!"

Lily burst into laughter, clutching her stomach but clearly delighted. Even Mrs. Blake couldn't hold back her chuckles.

"You're ridiculous," I said, shaking my head but smiling.

"And proud of it," Sam said, striking a superhero pose.

The doctor came in not long after, a friendly man with glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose, making him look like he was perpetually peering over them. He carried a clipboard in one hand and a warm smile that immediately put everyone at ease.

"Lily," he began, his tone cheerful, "you're officially on the mend. But I need you to stick to a few rules to make sure you heal properly, okay?"

Lily nodded, sitting up straighter like she was about to take notes.

"First," the doctor continued, "no running around or heavy lifting for at least a week." He glanced pointedly at Sam, who raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Hey, don't look at me! I'm not making her run a marathon," Sam said, grinning.

The doctor chuckled, shaking his head. "Second, if there's any discomfort, fever, or anything unusual, bring her back right away."

Mrs. Blake nodded, her voice firm but kind. "We'll make sure she takes it easy. Thank you, doctor."

He handed over the discharge papers with a reassuring smile before heading out. Moments later, a nurse arrived to wheel Lily out in a wheelchair.

"I don't need this," Lily protested, crossing her arms. "I can walk just fine."

"It's hospital policy," the nurse said with a playful wink. "Besides, I wouldn't want you to miss the grand exit. It's like a parade—except quieter."

Lily giggled despite herself, settling into the chair as Sam leaned over and whispered loudly, "Wave like a queen. It's your moment."

Lily raised her hand in an exaggerated royal wave, and we all burst out laughing as the nurse wheeled her down the hallway.

When we stepped outside, the crisp autumn air greeted us, carrying the faint scent of fallen leaves and distant chimneys. Lily took a deep breath, her cheeks glowing with relief.

"Finally!" she exclaimed, stretching her arms like she'd just been released from a dungeon. "I missed being outside."

"We missed you at home," Mrs. Blake said, helping her into the car with gentle care. "And to celebrate your homecoming, we thought we'd do something special."

Lily's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "What is it?"

Mrs. Blake smiled as she slid into the driver's seat. "Let's just say it involves a certain favorite restaurant of yours."

Lily's face lit up. "You mean... the pancake place? With the whipped cream and chocolate chip pancakes?"

Mrs. Blake grinned. "You'll have to wait and see."

"And can we get ice cream after?" Lily asked eagerly, leaning forward in her seat.

Mrs. Blake laughed, glancing at her through the rearview mirror.

As Mrs. Blake turned the car into the parking lot, the bright neon sign for The Krispy Fried Chicken Shack came into view, its bold lettering framed by flashing lights. The giant chicken statue near the entrance stood proudly, one wing pointing toward the door as if inviting us in. The unmistakable aroma of fried chicken, buttery biscuits, and spices hit us like a wave the moment we rolled down the windows, and my stomach growled on cue.

From the backseat, Lily clapped her hands in excitement, her earlier fatigue momentarily forgotten. "Krispy Fried Chicken!" she squealed. "I love this place!"

"I thought you'd like it," Mrs. Blake said with a warm smile as she parked the car. "It's a special treat for your first day out of the hospital."

Sam practically launched himself out of the car as soon as it stopped, making a beeline for the giant chicken statue. "I'm getting the biggest combo meal they've got," he declared, his voice echoing slightly in the open air.

"You always say that," Mrs. Blake teased, stepping out of the car. "And then you leave half of it on your plate."

"Not this time," Sam replied, puffing out his chest like he was about to enter a fried chicken eating competition. "I've been training for this moment."

"Training for fried chicken?" Lily asked, giggling as Mrs. Blake helped her out of the car.

"Yep," Sam said, his expression completely serious. "It's an elite sport. Only the strongest survive."

"Pretty sure it's just called 'eating,'" I said, laughing as we walked toward the entrance.

Inside, the restaurant was alive with energy. The chatter of customers mixed with the clatter of plates and the faint hum of a country song playing from the speakers. The air was warm and smelled like comfort food heaven—fried chicken, buttery biscuits, and just a hint of something sweet.

A cheerful waitress with a name tag that read Betty greeted us at the door. "Y'all here for dinner or just to admire the statue out front?" she asked with a wink.

"Dinner," Mrs. Blake said with a chuckle. "Though I think my son might want to take the statue home."

Betty laughed as she grabbed a stack of menus. "Well, let's get y'all settled first."

She led us to a booth by the window, the table already stocked with napkins, ketchup bottles, and a small bucket of complimentary hush puppies. Sam wasted no time, grabbing one before we even sat down.

"I'm starting with these," he declared, popping the hush puppy into his mouth.

"Save some for the rest of us," Mrs. Blake chided gently, though she couldn't hide her smile.

We spent a few minutes poring over the menus, though it didn't take long for Lily to decide. She closed her menu with a flourish and announced, "Chicken tenders and mashed potatoes. No contest."

"Good choice," Mrs. Blake said. "What about you, Emily?"

I skimmed the menu, finally settling on a classic fried chicken plate with mac and cheese. "I'll go with this. Hard to mess up fried chicken."

Sam, however, had a much harder time deciding. He squinted at the menu like it was a complex math problem, muttering to himself about combos, sides, and "optimal chicken-to-biscuit ratios."

"Just pick something," I said, rolling my eyes.

"This is serious," he replied, holding up a hand to silence me. "You can't rush greatness."

When Betty returned to take our order, Sam dramatically pointed to the Krispy King Combo—a mountain of fried chicken, fries, coleslaw, and biscuits.

"Ambitious," Betty said, jotting it down. "You sure you can finish all that, sugar?"

"Absolutely," Sam said, nodding solemnly.

Betty raised an eyebrow but smiled. "I'll get y'all an extra basket of biscuits, just in case."

As we waited for the food, the conversation flowed easily. Sam launched into a story about how he and his friends had tried to build a slingshot out of recess supplies and got caught by their teacher.

"What were you even trying to slingshot?" I asked, laughing.

"Acorns," Sam admitted with a sheepish grin. "But apparently, it was a 'safety hazard.'"

"Sounds like Mr. Harris had a point," Mrs. Blake said, shaking her head with a grin.

When the food finally arrived, it was a feast worthy of its name. The chicken was golden and crispy, the mac and cheese gooey and rich, and the biscuits fluffy enough to make you believe in miracles. Sam stared at his Krispy King Combo like he'd just uncovered buried treasure.

"This," he declared, holding up a drumstick, "is the pinnacle of human achievement."

"You're such a dork," Lily said, giggling as she dipped a chicken tender into her mashed potatoes.

The table went quiet for a while as we all dug in, the only sounds the occasional crunch of fried chicken and murmurs of appreciation.

"This is the best," Lily said between bites, holding up a piece of her chicken tender like it was a trophy.

"I'm glad you're enjoying it," Mrs. Blake said, her voice full of warmth. "You deserve it after the week you've had."

As the meal wound down, Betty reappeared with dessert—a warm peach cobbler topped with a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream.

"I saved the best for last," she said with a wink, setting it down in the center of the table.

Lily's eyes widened. "This is the best day ever," she said, grabbing her spoon.

We all took turns digging into the cobbler, the sweet, buttery flavors a perfect ending to the meal.

By the time we left the restaurant, everyone was full and content. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting the parking lot in a warm orange glow.

"Can we come here again soon?" Lily asked, her voice soft as she leaned against the car window.

"We'll see," Mrs. Blake said with a knowing smile. "For now, let's just focus on getting you rested and back to full strength."

As we drove home, Sam was already planning our next "family food adventure," complete with rankings and categories. Despite everything we'd been through, I couldn't help but smile. Being together like this—sharing food, laughter, and the little moments—made everything feel just a little brighter.

It started with a faint fluttering outside the window—tiny white specks dancing in the breeze like little scraps of paper set free. I was the first to notice, my breath catching as I stared at the unfamiliar sight. For a moment, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.

"Mrs. Blake!" I called, louder than I intended. My heart was racing, and I wasn't sure why. "It's snowing!"

The sound of chairs scraping against the floor followed as Sam and Lily rushed to the window, their excitement filling the room like a warm current.

"Snow!" Lily squealed, pressing her hands and nose against the glass, leaving little smudges in her wake. "It's really snowing!"

"It's about time," Sam added, grinning from ear to ear. "I was starting to think we'd never get any this year."

Mrs. Blake appeared in the doorway, her smile soft and amused as she watched us. "The forecast did say we'd get a little flurry today," she said, folding her arms. "Looks like they were right for once."

I couldn't take my eyes off the snow, mesmerized by the way it twirled and floated gently to the ground, as if it had all the time in the world. The world outside the window transformed with every passing second, the drab brown of the earth and the brittle gray of the bare trees gradually softening under a delicate white veil. I pressed my hand against the cold windowpane, feeling an inexplicable ache in my chest.

"I've never seen snow before," I admitted, my voice quieter now.

Sam turned to me, his eyebrows shooting up so high I thought they might vanish into his hairline. "Never? Like, not even a little bit?"

I shook my head, my cheeks warming. "Not in South Georgia. Folkston gets hot summers and rainy winters, but snow? That's like waiting for hens to grow teeth."

Lily gasped, grabbing my arm and bouncing in place like a wind-up toy. "Then we have to go outside! You have to see it up close!" Her enthusiasm was infectious, and I found myself grinning despite the fluttering in my stomach.

Mrs. Blake chuckled, already heading toward the coat rack by the door. "Let's bundle up first," she said, pulling scarves and gloves from the hooks with practiced efficiency. "It's cold out there, and I don't want anyone catching a chill. Especially you, Emily—you're not used to this kind of weather."

As we wrapped ourselves in layers, I felt a sense of wonder creeping over me. Back home in Folkston, we never worried about snow. Winters there meant damp mornings and muddy boots, not the crisp, cold air that now nipped at my cheeks as we stepped outside.

The first step onto the snow was like stepping into another world. My boots sank slightly into the soft powder, leaving crisp impressions behind me. It wasn't like I imagined—soft and fluffy like cotton. It was colder, sharper, and when I scooped some into my hands, it melted almost immediately, leaving my palms damp and chilled.

"It's amazing," I whispered, looking around as the flakes continued to fall, each one unique and glittering in the pale winter light.

Sam grinned, bending down to pack a snowball in his gloved hands. "You better watch out," he said with a mischievous glint in his eye. "First-timers like you are prime targets."

I yelped as the snowball sailed past me, missing by inches. Lily squealed with laughter and grabbed a handful of snow, retaliating with a poorly aimed throw that hit Sam square in the shoulder.

"Hey!" Sam laughed, brushing off the snow. "I'm the one teaching Emily, not you!"

Mrs. Blake watched from the porch, her hands tucked into her coat pockets and a fond smile on her face. "Don't get too wild, you three. And Emily, be careful—you'll feel the cold before long if you're not used to it."

But I barely heard her. For the first time, I didn't care about the cold or the damp seeping into my gloves. For the first time, I felt like I was part of something magical, something I'd only read about in books or seen in movies. Back in Folkston, my world had been filled with sun-dappled forests, muddy rivers, and the hum of cicadas in the summer heat. But here, with snow falling all around me, it was like stepping into a dream I didn't want to wake up from.

"I wish Mama and Papa could see this," I murmured, more to myself than anyone else.

As Sam and Lily resumed their snowball fight, I stood in the middle of the yard, letting the snowflakes land on my face. They melted almost as soon as they touched my skin, but for a fleeting moment, they felt like little kisses from the sky.

Back inside, we peeled off our wet coats and boots, piling them near the door in a messy heap. The warmth of the house enveloped me like a hug, the air smelling faintly of cinnamon and wood smoke. My cheeks and fingers tingled as they adjusted to the sudden change in temperature. Mrs. Blake ushered us into the living room, where a fire crackled in the hearth, casting a golden glow across the room.

"Hot cocoa, everyone?" she asked, her voice cheerful as she disappeared into the kitchen.

"Yes, please!" Lily and Sam chorused, flopping onto the couch with damp hair and red noses. I followed more slowly, still feeling the traces of snow on my skin like a phantom touch.

Mrs. Blake returned with a tray of steaming mugs, each topped with a generous mound of marshmallows. She handed one to me, the warmth of the ceramic soothing against my cold fingers. I took a cautious sip, the rich, velvety chocolate flooding my senses. It was the perfect antidote to the chill that had seeped into my bones.

"So, Emily," Lily said, her eyes bright as she cradled her mug. "What do you think of your first snow?"

I hesitated, searching for the right words. The day had felt so surreal, like stepping into one of those storybooks Mama used to read to me when I was little. "It's amazing," I said finally, a soft smile spreading across my face. "It feels like... like Christmas."

"True," Mrs. Blake said, her eyes twinkling as she sat down in the armchair by the fire. "But there's no rule that says you can't enjoy the magic of snow any time it falls."

As I sipped my cocoa, I let my gaze wander around the room. The firelight flickered across the faces of the Blake family, highlighting the warmth and ease they seemed to carry with them. Sam was stretched out on the rug, poking at his marshmallows with a spoon, while Lily leaned against the couch, humming to herself. It was a simple moment, yet it felt extraordinary—like I was being wrapped in more than just the warmth of the fire.

Dinner preparation began not long after, heralded by the cheerful clatter of pots and pans. Mrs. Blake moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, pulling ingredients from the fridge and lining them up on the counter. She glanced over her shoulder at me, her smile as warm as the fire in the living room.

"Emily, do you want to help tonight?" she asked.

I hesitated, glancing toward the window where Lily and Sam were bundling up again to head back outside. Their muffled voices were full of excitement as they planned snow forts and snow angels, their energy seemingly endless. My cheeks still stung faintly from our earlier adventure, and the cozy warmth of the kitchen was far more inviting.

"Sure," I said, stepping toward the counter.

Mrs. Blake handed me a cutting board and a small pile of vegetables. "We're making stew tonight," she explained. "Nice and hearty for a snowy day."

I nodded, settling into the task as she placed a knife in my hand. "Start with the carrots and celery," she said. "Just nice, even slices."

I worked carefully, the knife making a soft thwack against the cutting board with each slice. Mrs. Blake moved beside me, stirring a pot on the stove that already smelled heavenly. The rich aroma of simmering broth filled the room, mingling with the faint scent of the onions she had diced earlier.

"You're doing great," she said encouragingly when I finished the first pile of vegetables. She passed me an onion next, showing me how to cut it properly. I tried to mimic her movements, though I winced as my eyes began to water from the sharp fumes.

Mrs. Blake chuckled gently, handing me a dish towel to dab my eyes. "Onions always win the battle," she said with a grin. "But they're worth it in the end."

I couldn't help but laugh a little at that, blinking away the sting. As I returned to slicing, I noticed something unexpected—a calmness settling over me. The steady rhythm of chopping, the hum of the stove, and the soft crackle of the fire in the next room created a kind of peaceful harmony. It wasn't something I'd ever paid attention to before, but I found myself enjoying the simple act of preparing food.

"Cooking is one of my favorite ways to wind down," Mrs. Blake said as she added the vegetables to the pot, stirring them in with care. "There's something calming about it, don't you think?"

"Yeah," I said softly, surprised by how much I meant it.

Outside, Lily and Sam's laughter echoed faintly through the frosted windows, their voices rising and falling like the playful wind that swirled the snow around them. Occasionally, they would bang on the glass, their faces pressed against the panes, eager to show off their snow creations. One time, Lily's muffled shout came through loud and clear: "Look! A snow dog!"

Mrs. Blake and I exchanged amused glances before stepping closer to the window. The "snow dog" was a lumpy figure with sticks for ears, a twig tail, and pebble eyes. It leaned precariously to one side, but Lily's wide grin beamed with pride as she stood next to it.

"Impressive," Mrs. Blake called through the window, giving her a thumbs-up.

"What's that?" I pointed between its legs.

"His weenie," she giggled, then dove back into the snow.

"Lily!" Mrs. Blake scolded.

I looked at Sam. He was already working on a new project beside her.

By the time dinner was ready, Lily and Sam burst back into the house, their cheeks flushed and their noses bright pink from the cold. They shed their damp snow gear in a chaotic heap near the door, shivering as they shuffled toward the heater. Their clothes smelled faintly of the icy air, a crisp and clean scent that clung to the house.

Mrs. Blake ladled steaming bowls of stew for everyone, the hearty aroma filling the room and drawing us all to the table. Sam dug in first, barely blowing on his spoonful.

"You really helped with this?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he chewed. His tone was skeptical but playful, his grin teasing.

"I did," I said, lifting my chin in mock indignation. "What, you don't think I can cook?"

"It's actually good," he admitted, still grinning. "Surprisingly."

"Thanks for the compliment... I think," I said with a smirk, which earned a laugh from Mrs. Blake.

Dinner was filled with lively chatter about their snow adventures. Sam launched into a detailed recounting of a snowball trick shot he claimed was nothing short of legendary. Lily interrupted every few minutes, rolling her eyes and insisting her snow dog was the true highlight of the day, although, she ended up turning the dog into a girl dog. Their good-natured bickering kept everyone laughing, and even I found myself joining in now and then.

I mostly listened, though, smiling at their antics and soaking in the warmth of it all. There was something comforting about the way they interacted—so natural and full of life. As the conversation swirled around me, I felt a little pang in my chest. This—this sense of belonging—was something I hadn't realized I'd been missing.

After the meal, as the others lingered over their bowls, I surprised even myself by offering to help with the dishes.

Mrs. Blake, mid-sentence, paused and turned to me with raised eyebrows. "Are you sure?" she asked, her voice kind but clearly surprised.

"Yeah," I said, shrugging. "It's the least I can do."

Lily and Sam froze mid-bite, their jaws dropping as if I'd just volunteered to climb a mountain.

"Wow," Sam said with mock astonishment. "Emily's actually doing chores willingly? Someone write this down."

"Don't scare her off," Mrs. Blake said with a laugh, tossing a towel in my direction. "She might change her mind."

I rolled my eyes at Sam and followed Mrs. Blake to the sink. As I rinsed plates, she dried them, her movements quick and practiced. For a few moments, the kitchen was quiet, save for the running water and the faint clinking of dishes.

"You've settled in well," Mrs. Blake said eventually, her voice soft. "It's been nice having you here."

I glanced at her, unsure how to respond. "It's nice being here," I said honestly. "It's... different, but in a good way."

Mrs. Blake smiled. "Different how?"

I hesitated, focusing on the plate in my hands. "Well, back in Folkston, we always ate together, just like here. Mama would make something delicious, and we'd all sit around the table. There was a lot of laughing, and Papa would tell stories about his day at work. But... we always prayed before meals. Every single time."

Mrs. Blake tilted her head. "And you didn't like that?"

I shook my head, trying to put my feelings into words. "I don't know. It wasn't bad, really. It's just... they were serious about it. We had to bow our heads and say the words just right. Sometimes, it felt like we spent more time on the praying than the eating."

Mrs. Blake chuckled softly. "I can see how that might feel a little strict, especially for a kid."

I smiled faintly, setting another plate in the drying rack. "It wasn't all bad, though. After dinner, Mama and I would clean up together while Papa sat on the porch, whittling or just listening to the crickets. It was fun. Simple. But I guess I didn't appreciate it as much as I should've back then."

Mrs. Blake paused, resting the towel on the counter. "That sounds like a lovely childhood, Emily."

"It was," I admitted quietly. "But here, it's... different. You don't pray before meals, but you still have this... warmth, you know? It's like everything is easier, more relaxed."

She smiled at me, her expression thoughtful. "Every family is different. What's important is that you feel like you belong, wherever you are."

I nodded, my throat tightening a little. "I do. I really do."

She reached out, squeezing my shoulder gently. "You belong here, Emily. And you're always welcome."

The warmth in her voice made my chest ache in the best way. I swallowed hard, turning back to the sink. "Thanks," I said quietly.

Mrs. Blake smiled again and returned to drying the dishes. We worked in companionable silence, the conversation lingering in the air like the soft hum of the heater. Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the world in quiet, peaceful white.