Her voice was careful. Soft. The kind of tone adults use when they don’t want to alarm you, but also don’t want to lie.
“Hi, Erica,” she said. “I was wondering if you might have a few minutes today. It’s nothing urgent, but I think a quick chat would be helpful.”
I told her I’d stop by after work.
When I arrived at the preschool that afternoon, everything looked exactly the way it always did—cheerful and harmless. Paper snowflakes covered the windows. Tiny mittens were clipped to a string across the wall. Gingerbread men with mismatched googly eyes smiled down from the bulletin board.
Normally, I would have loved it.
That day, it felt unsettling.
Ms. Allen waited until most of the children had been picked up. Ruby was busy at a puzzle table, humming to herself, completely unaware that my chest felt like it was caving in.
She guided me to a small table near the reading corner and slid a piece of red construction paper across the surface.
“I don’t want to overstep,” she said gently, “but I think you should see this.”
My hands started to shake before I even picked it up.
