“I know,” I say, my fingers flying across the keyboard as I prepare for a virtual chat with Layla. “This’ll only take a few minutes, and then we’ll go.”

He sighs. “I’ll believe that when it happens.”

Dean has a point. Layla and I do tend to lose track of time during our weekly calls.

When I start my video, Layla’s already in the meeting room, and I wave wildly at the camera. “Tell me everything. How’d it go? Were you nervous? What kinds of questions did they ask? When will they make the decision?”

“Slow down, Solange,” she says on a laugh. “I’ll never be able to remember what I’m supposed to tell you.”

“You’re right,” I say, grimacing apologetically. “Let’s try this again. How’d it go?”

Layla has her GED now. Yesterday, she interviewed for a pilot program that would pay her to shadow a paralegal. She’s in it for the long haul, and so am I.

She fills me in, explaining that she expects to hear back from the program by the end of next week.

I clap effusively. “Eeep! Please don’t wait until our regular Saturday morning call to tell me the news. Send me a text as soon as you know.”

“I will,” she says, her eyes bright and hopeful. “Thanks for telling me about the opportunity. And for always being my sounding board.”

“Of course, Layla. It truly is my pleasure.”

I absolutely mean that too. My role as her mentor. My role at Victory Academy. These are responsibilities I don’t take lightly, and I’m honored that I get to guide these wonderfully deserving young people. It isn’t always easy, but even when I experience a hiccup, I never second-guess my decision to align my future with theirs.

Out of the corner of my eye, I track Dean’s movements in the kitchen. He’s dressed in a gray three-piece suit, and his hair is still wet from the shower he took minutes ago. Muttering to himself, he searches the cabinets.

“It’s in the one above the dishwasher,” I tell him before I return my attention to Layla. To her, I say: “Okay, my dear, I need to go. The wedding’s due to start in an hour.”

Layla gives me a thumbs-up, then blows me a kiss. I mimic her farewell and close the Zoom app. As soon as I do, Dean presses the power button on the handheld blender I gave him last Christmas, and its god-awful whirring noise fills the room.

I wait for him to finish before I speak. “What are you—”

The noise resumes, then stops.

“What are you making—”

Again with the whirring. Which he’s plainly doing on purpose.

I look up and narrow my eyes at him. “Oh my God, are you a toddler?”