Page 7 of After the Rain

Which made my professional relationship with Wade Harrison both important and potentially dangerous.

The first fourconferences went smoothly. Mrs. Patterson was thrilled with her daughter's reading progress—Lucy had jumped two grade levels since September and was now reading chapter books independently. Mr. and Mrs. Kim had questions about their son's social development that I was able to address with specific examples and suggestions. Daniel was an introvert who needed more time to warm up to new situations, but once he felt comfortable, he was a natural leader among his peers.

The Johnsons were concerned about their daughter's math skills, which gave me a chance to explain my approach to differentiated instruction. Sophie was a kinesthetic learner who needed to move while she processed information, so I'd started incorporating movement games into our math lessons. The improvement in her engagement had been dramatic.

These were the conversations I loved—focused on children's needs, grounded in educational research, collaborative between home and school. This was why I'd become a teacher: to help children discover their strengths, overcome their challenges, and develop into confident learners.

I was feeling more like myself. Professional, competent, in control of my classroom and my emotions.

Then Wade appeared in my doorway.

He looked like he'd made an effort—his polo shirt was pressed, his hair was tamed, and he was carrying a small notebook like he'd come prepared to take notes. But there was still that slightly uncertain energy about him, like he was working hard to project confidence he didn't entirely feel.

The sight of him reminded me why I needed to be careful. Wade was exactly the kind of parent who could developmisplaced attachments—recently divorced, clearly struggling with the transition to single parenthood, deeply invested in Cooper's wellbeing. If I wasn't careful to maintain professional boundaries, he might misinterpret my concern for Cooper as personal interest in him.

"Mr. Harrison," I said, standing up and extending my hand. "Thank you for making time tonight."

His handshake was firm and warm, lasting just a moment before I pulled back to maintain appropriate distance. "Thanks for staying late. I know these conferences are a long day for you."

"It's my favorite part of the job, actually. Getting to talk one-on-one with parents about their kids."

Wade settled into the chair I'd positioned across from my desk, and I launched into my prepared presentation about Cooper's academic progress. Math skills, reading development, social interactions, fine motor development—all the benchmarks that parents wanted to hear about.

But somewhere in the middle of discussing Cooper's advanced spatial reasoning abilities, our conversation shifted from purely professional to something more collaborative.

"He gets that from building with you," I said, showing Wade a block structure Cooper had created during free play. "The way he thinks about three-dimensional relationships is really sophisticated for his age. This structure demonstrates understanding of balance, proportion, and engineering principles that most kids don't develop until second grade."

Wade studied the photo with genuine interest, his architect's eye clearly engaged. "We've been working on a Lego city together. He's got ideas about traffic flow and zoning that would impress my business partner. Last weekend he redesigned the whole layout because he said the fire trucks couldn't get to the hospital fast enough."

"That's incredible. You're giving him such a strong foundation for mathematical thinking, but also for systems thinking and problem-solving. Those weekend projects are reinforcing everything we're working on in class."

"I'm just trying to keep up with him, honestly." Wade looked up from the photo, and I could see the uncertainty beneath his carefully constructed confidence. "Sometimes I feel like I'm making it all up as I go along."

There was vulnerability in his voice that made me want to offer reassurance. Not because I was attracted to him, but because supporting parents was part of my job—and because Cooper deserved a father who felt confident in his abilities.

"Single parenting is tough. You're doing an amazing job."

"Am I?" He leaned back in his chair, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Because most days I feel like I'm constantly playing catch-up. Like there are things Sarah would have caught that I'm completely missing."

"Cooper feels loved and supported. He talks about you constantly—your weekend projects, the things you teach him, how much fun you have together. When we did our family writing exercise last week, he wrote three pages about building the treehouse with you. That's what matters."

Wade was quiet for a moment, looking down at his notebook where he'd been jotting down notes about reading strategies. "He drew a picture last week. Our family. But he included you in it."

I felt my chest tighten with familiar anxiety. This was how it started—children forming attachments that parents might misinterpret as inappropriate. "That's actually quite common. Children often include important figures from their daily lives in family portraits. Teachers, coaches, babysitters."

"I wasn't sure what to make of it. I mean, you've only been his teacher for three weeks."

"Children form attachments quickly, especially when they're going through transitions. Cooper feels safe here. That's a good thing."

"It is." Wade's voice was soft. "It's just... he's had so many changes lately. I want to make sure he has stability, you know? Positive influences."

"He does. You're giving him exactly what he needs."

I found myself sharing insights from my educational training that I rarely discussed with parents—attachment theory, trauma-informed practices, the importance of emotional regulation in learning. Wade absorbed it all, asked thoughtful questions, made connections between my suggestions and things he'd observed at home.

It was the kind of deep, collaborative conversation about a child's development that I'd always hoped to have with parents but rarely did. Most conferences focused on grades and behavior, surface-level concerns that missed the complexity of how children actually learned and grew. This felt different—like talking to someone who genuinely understood that education was about the whole child, not just academic achievement.

"What about homework expectations?" Wade asked as our official conference time wound down. "I want to make sure I'm supporting what you're doing in class without overwhelming him."

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