In the silence that followed, I imagined my mother throwing the bottle out the window, flinging herself into his arms, and begging for his forgiveness. I dug my fingers into my thighs, imagining the wrinkle between my father’s eyes—the one that had become a permanent worry line—easing back into his skin with his relief. Instead, she walked into their bedroom, bottle in hand, tumbler in the other, closing and locking the door behind her. I climbed into bed, pulled the covers over my head, and lay awake for the entire night.

The memory dissolves when my phone buzzes with a reminder. Volunteer in Kiko’s classroom. My jaw unclenches and I sit up, wondering how bad things must have been for Mom by then; how sad, how hopeless, how alone she was to have made the choices she did. I feel a twinge and wish—maybe for the first time—that I could have been old enough to help her through it.

The beanbag chair feels lumpy, so I adjust my frame until I can get just the right amount of lean without feeling like I’m going to tip backward. I wonder whether I’ve spoken to Kiko about getting a different kind of chair for me. I might be a tad too tall for a beanbag chair, even if it is giant size. When I’m more comfortable I quickly review my notes, see that I’ve worked with two kids this morning—one a sweet boy with a terrible cold, who kept trying to sneeze into his elbow but missed every single time. And now the last kid of the day is walking my way: cat-eye glasses, hair in a beautiful updo, surprisingly elegant for elementary school, and a name tag that spells out Maree. Immediately, I am smiling, and when she settles herself on the smaller beanbag, I say, “So do you like Anne of Green Gables? I could read that to you today, if you’d like.”

Her mouth hangs open slightly and she stares at me, one hand touching her name tag. “Um, wow, that’s just—wow, Ms. Claire. Is that you remembering me? ’Cause—um, wow—that’s just the best ever, ’cept I have more of my story that I wrote, and I really, really want to read it to you today. Can I?”

I’m thrown by what she says, except I do know this kid, see it recorded in my preparation notes for today. Might see Maree at school volunteering today. You teach her guitar lessons and also see her at the school gardens and around town quite often. Huh. Nothing about Anne of Green Gables, though. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

She opens up a little paper booklet with pink and green staples. Flips forward a few pages to one with CHAPTER TWO written in uneven letters across the top.