“Seeing you girls is the best thing in my week!” I blubbered, trying not to hug them too tight, because I’d seen how easily they bruised. “I … I’m going to be okay. It was … I thought he was pretty perfect, too, but …” I sucked in a breath. “Well, it wasn’t meant to be.”

I straightened, grabbing another tissue and wiping away the dampness on my cheeks. “And you know what? I actually should be celebrating! Because I got a letter today with some really good news!”

Their eyes widened with preteen wonder. “Oooh, what did it say?” Faith gushed.

I led them back to the table, picking up my beads. “Well … a long time ago, I had almost finished a degree in fine art. But … some stuff happened in my private life, and I dropped out. Today, I got a letter from one of my professors asking me to return to finish my degree. I was only one class away—so close!”

The girls looked politely happy for me. I suppose it wasn’t as exciting to them as I’d talked it up to be. In fact, I was still on the fence about the whole thing myself, but it had seemed like a good change of subject.

“Why’d you drop out with only one subject left?” Ellie asked, direct as always. “That seems a little … dumb …”

I giggled wetly. “You know, sometimes grown-ups make dumb choices, too. And I was only twenty-one when it happened. That’s still a baby, really.”

“No it’s not!” Faith scratched her head. “That’s so old!”

“Thank you very much, now I feel ancient at twenty-eight! You’ll be shipping me off to a nursing home before I know it!”

They looked suitably scandalised. “No way!” Ellie protested. “You’re the coolest therapist any of us get to see! Don’t get old, Jemma, please!”

I pressed my lips together. ‘Coolest therapist’ … that pipe dream that had been simmering in the back of my mind for years now … I could make that a reality. If I had a fine arts degree, I’d be able to do postgraduate studies, and become a legit art therapist. I could make money, helping kids like these three amazing girls, doing something that I loved, and that made me happy.

Whoever, or whatever, had made Professor Proctor send that letter … I was only just beginning to realise how much of a difference this could make to my life.

No more crying, Jemma!

I shrugged, forcing a grin onto my face. “Don’t you worry, I’ll still be bussin’ even when I’m ninety.”

The girls giggled, the way they always did when I threw in some odd slang word that I was never sure I was using correctly.

The rest of the session went smoothly, with chatter, and laughter, and a break from the reality of their lives … and a break from the shitshow that was mine.