Page 38 of Broken Blood Ties

Near the end of our craft time, the classroom assistant, shared between Mr. Terry’s class and mine, pops her head in the door. “I’m headed to the office and copy room. Need anything?”

I hold up a finger as I glance around my desk. “Yes! Do you mind making copies of this? I need twenty-two.” Standing to walk it over to her, I grab the two folders of work for my kids out sick and deliver those to her as well. “Do you mind taking these up at well? They just need to go to the main office. Thank you so much.”

The door closes and I sigh, ready to tackle the rest of the day.

* * *

Dismissal blows through like a tornado, and by the time I make it back to my room, all I want is to go home, put my pajamas on, and cuddle with Deuce. After resetting my room for tomorrow, I pack my bag up and slide on my coat.

With a few papers to drop off in the main office, I stop by there first.

“Hey, Mark! Heading home soon?”

Mark pokes his head up from behind the front desk while I lean on it. It’s the perfect height for my elbows to rest on the counter, both arms propping my chin up.

He adjusts his bow tie, giving me an eye roll. “No. Not even close.”

I offer him a pouty face, then slide my stack of purchase order requests across the counter with a single pointer finger. “Well, I’m beat and headed home but wanted to turn these in first. I need a couple more iPads for the classroom, and I’m hoping I still have some money in the budget.”

Mark harumphs. “Please. If anyone still has money after the second semester, it’s you.”

“Usually. Except Shelly’s been threatening to petition for my funds since I haven’t used much.” I shake my head. She’s joking, of course, but Mark’s right—I try hard to make the money for my preschoolers stretch. Shelly might call it frugal, but I’ve been the one who never cared about whose money I spent and what I spent it on. Again, I’ve worked hard to put that girl to bed. Plus, when I was thrust out on my own, it became a necessity.

“Well, don’t stay too late,” I say, dragging my hand from the counter and offering Mark a wave. He blows me a kiss before I turn back toward the door, but not before I notice one of my pink open-end envelopes sitting on the counter. I back up.

Aoife O’Donnell is scrawled across the top in my handwriting, and I hold it up to Mark. “Why is this still here?”

He shrugs. “Not sure. Must not have been picked up.”

“The office called and told me to have it ready because the nanny was going to get it.”

Mark shrugs again. “No idea. Maybe she’ll get it tomorrow.”

I stare at the packet. It’s not pressing Aoife gets it, but part of me wants to know she does. Aoife is one of my students who hates to be left out. She won’t complain or whine, but she pulls inward and my heart cracks knowing she may be sad she’s missing school. I want her to know that her education matters; that even at a ritzy school with thousands of students, I see her. Not just a job.

I pause on my thoughts, thinking I might need to unpack this further because it resonates with me. I’m pretty sure the adults in my life growing up saw me as a job, a means to an end. My teachers and personal tutors. My tennis coaches. They saw the money and the status my family could provide. Even my parents, the way they treated my sister and me. My sister bore the brunt of it while I was too wrapped up in my own selfish world to care.

Tucking the folder of schoolwork under my arm, I exit the building and splurge on a rideshare to Beacon Hill.

When the car pulls up in front of the Federal-style house that belongs to the O’Donnell’s, I nearly melt. It’s gorgeous.

It’s apparent someone renovated it, but they preserved much of the home’s original features. The traditional Federal entry, the triple-hung windows, dainty iron work—jeez.

I step out onto the charming yet irregular cobblestone driveway, and my driver pulls away. I should’ve just gone to O’Brien’s. It’s not too far from here, and that might be less … weird. That will be my plan B.

Where there is slush and patches of ice on the street sidewalks, there isn’t any on the driveway, and I march toward the gate praying this isn’t awkward.

A guard station sits to the left of the driveway. Huh. Well, that’s intense. Then, as I approach it, I spot the cameras mounted under the guard shed and propped up on the gate itself.

I assumed Kieran had money, considering he owns multiple well-known restaurants, but this is on a whole other level.

Slowing near the guard station, a man in dark jeans and a tactical vest steps out, holding his hand up at me. “Ma’am. Stop right there.”

I do, plastering a grin on my face. “Hey, I’m Summer Smith. Aoife’s preschool teacher. She was out of school today, and I noticed the nanny didn’t come to pick up her work, so I decided to run it over.” Oh jeez, I sound like a nut.

The man raises his eyebrows and scratches his bald head. “One second. Please wait right there.”

I look down, fighting the urge to step forward a stone’s length merely because he told me not to move.

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