The Girl Who Used to Love School
I’m 36. Married. Stable life. Safe neighborhood. A house with creaky wooden floors and a driveway that never feels quite wide enough.
For years, I thought I had everything figured out.
Then Lily started school.
Lily was six.
She was the kind of child who made other parents smile without meaning to.
Always talking.
Always sharing.
Always dancing to little songs she invented on the spot.
When she started first grade that September, she walked through those doors like it was the grand opening of her own empire.
Her backpack looked enormous on her tiny frame, the straps bouncing with every step.
She had those uneven braids she insisted on doing herself.
And every morning she yelled from the porch, “Bye, Mommy!”
I used to sit in my car after drop-off and just smile.
Every afternoon she’d come home buzzing.
- Glitter glue “exploded everywhere.”
- The class hamster needed more bedding.
- Her teacher said she had “the neatest handwriting.”
It felt right.
It felt safe.
For weeks, everything was perfect.
Then late October showed up and quietly ruined it.
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