Chapter 1 — The Parent-Teacher Conference

Emma

The faint scent of chalk and old wood greeted Emma Harrington as she stepped into Havenport Elementary. The red-brick building looked much the same as it had when she was a student. For a moment, she was transported back to simpler days—before responsibilities, before grief. But the laughter of children echoing down the halls now carried a bittersweet distance. She tightened her grip on the strap of her leather tote bag and glanced at the note in her hand—a reminder from the school about the parent-teacher conference. Room 14. Nathan Cole.

Oliver’s teacher.

Her footsteps echoed softly on the linoleum, each step drawing her closer to the meeting she both dreaded and needed. Artwork lined the walls—crayon-drawn sunrises, stick figure families, and shaky cursive spelling out “My Favorite Place.” Emma paused as her eyes caught a drawing of a stick figure father, the word “family” hovering in uneven letters beneath it. Her throat tightened, and she looked away quickly, swallowing the surge of emotion that threatened to rise. It reminded her of the time Oliver had drawn their family: himself, her, and a gap where his father should have been. She had tucked the drawing away, unable to confront it.

Moments like these were constant reminders of what Oliver had lost—and what she feared she couldn’t give him.

Outside the classroom door, Emma stopped. She smoothed her sweater, adjusted the strap of her bag once more, and took a deep breath. Parent-teacher meetings always brought an undercurrent of anxiety. Not because of Oliver—he was a sweet boy with a vivid imagination—but because of her. The unspoken judgment, the pitying glances from other parents, the careful way people asked, “How are you holding up?” as though she might shatter if pressed too hard.

Before her nerves could spiral further, the door opened.

“Mrs. Harrington?”

Emma looked up, startled. The man standing before her looked younger than she’d expected—late twenties, perhaps. He had sandy-blonde hair that was charmingly disheveled and hazel eyes that held an easy warmth. His pale blue button-up shirt, sleeves casually rolled to his elbows, revealed a lean, athletic build. A sleek black fountain pen peeked from his shirt pocket, catching the light as he gestured for her to enter. Everything about him exuded an air of energy and approachability.

“It’s Miss Harrington,” she corrected softly, her voice tinged with an apologetic undertone. She winced inwardly at how automatic the clarification had become.

“Of course, my apologies.” He stepped aside, his smile both apologetic and genuine. “I’m Nathan Cole. Thank you for coming in.”

Emma nodded and stepped inside. The classroom was bright and inviting, its walls adorned with colorful posters of famous authors and classic book covers. Shelves brimming with storybooks and art supplies lined one side, and a corkboard displayed student projects—some clumsy, some surprisingly intricate. One particular piece caught her eye: a watercolor of a lighthouse against a stormy sea. The brushstrokes were uneven but vibrant, and something about it tugged at a memory she couldn’t quite place. The faint scent of freshly sharpened pencils mingled with the lingering tang of chalk dust. It was the kind of room that seemed to spark creativity by simply existing.

Nathan moved behind his desk, picking up a folder as he spoke. “I wanted to talk to you about Oliver. He’s a wonderful kid—creative, insightful. He’s been impressing me with his storytelling skills during our language arts activities.”

Emma felt a flicker of pride but quickly tempered it. “That’s kind of you to say. He’s always had a bit of an overactive imagination.”

Nathan laughed softly, his amusement lighting up the room. “Overactive is exactly what you want in a writer. The stories he’s been sharing in class—they’re imaginative, layered. One was about a boy who could talk to the stars, asking them questions about the world. It was poetic, really, in its own way. He has such a unique perspective.”

His words stirred something in Emma, though she couldn’t quite name it. It wasn’t just pride—it was the way Nathan spoke about Oliver, as though he truly saw him. Her son wasn’t just another student but someone who mattered.

Nathan’s expression turned more thoughtful. “That said, I’ve noticed he’s been struggling with math lately. He seems distracted, and I think it’s starting to frustrate him.”

Emma sighed and settled into the small chair opposite his desk. “Math has always been a challenge for him. I try to help at home, but...” She hesitated, unsure how much to reveal and reluctant to admit her own inadequacies.

Nathan nodded, his hazel eyes kind but perceptive. He adjusted the fountain pen in his pocket, pausing as if carefully choosing his words. “Math’s been tricky for him lately. He gets frustrated when it doesn’t click, but it’s nothing unusual for his age. A lot of kids need an outlet when they’re feeling stuck. I’ve been thinking about starting a storytelling club after school. It’s informal—just a way for students to explore their creativity and build confidence. I think Oliver would thrive in it.”

“A storytelling club?” Emma echoed, surprised.

Nathan leaned forward slightly, his enthusiasm palpable. “Storytelling is such a powerful way for kids to express emotions and connect with others. It doesn’t have to be just for fun—it can be a chance for them to explore what they’re feeling in a safe space. And, honestly, Oliver seems like the kind of kid who would light up in that environment.”

Emma’s guardedness wavered under his earnestness. She found herself imagining Oliver, his face alight with excitement as he shared one of his stories. “That’s... kind of you to offer.”

“It’s selfish, really,” Nathan said with a self-deprecating grin. “I probably enjoy it as much as the kids do. They have such incredible imaginations—I’m constantly learning new things from them.”

Emma allowed herself a faint smile in return, though her nerves still hummed beneath the surface. “I’ll talk to Oliver about it. He’ll probably be excited.”

“I hope so,” Nathan said, his gaze steady but gentle. “He’s a bright kid, and I want to make sure he feels supported—both here and at home.”

The words landed with unexpected weight. Emma’s first instinct was to bristle at the subtle implication. Did he think she wasn’t doing enough? But there was no judgment in Nathan’s tone, only sincerity. His kindness had a way of disarming her defenses before she could fully erect them.

“I do my best,” she said softly, though her voice held a faint edge of defensiveness.

Nathan didn’t flinch. “I don’t doubt that for a second.”

The simplicity of his response caught her off guard, and for a moment, the tension in her chest loosened. She exhaled, something like relief washing over her.

“It’s just been me and Oliver for a while now,” she admitted, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “I worry about him. About whether I’m enough.”

Nathan leaned back slightly, his expression contemplative. “I can’t imagine how hard that must be. But from what I’ve seen, Oliver’s lucky to have you. And if there’s anything I can do to help—anything at all—you just have to say the word.”

Emma’s throat tightened, and she managed a small nod. “Thank you.” The words felt inadequate for the emotion swelling in her chest, but they were all she could muster.

For a moment, the room was quiet except for the faint sound of children laughing outside. The softness of it pressed gently against the edges of her heart, both soothing and bittersweet.

Nathan cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Well, I won’t keep you too long. I just wanted to make sure you knew what was going on and to let you know I’m here if you have any questions or concerns.”

Emma stood, smoothing her sweater again. “I appreciate that, Mr. Cole.”

“Nathan,” he corrected, his smile easy and unassuming.

“Nathan,” she repeated, the name unfamiliar on her tongue but not unpleasant.

As she extended her hand to shake his, his grip was firm without being overbearing. A fleeting warmth brushed her palm before they let go.

“Let me know what Oliver thinks about the club,” Nathan said as he walked her to the door.

“I will,” Emma promised. As she stepped back into the hallway, the sounds of the school swirled around her, but her thoughts remained fixed on the man she’d just met. She glanced at the crayon-drawn stick figure family one last time before turning toward the exit. Nathan’s words replayed in her mind—quiet, genuine, and earnest. For the first time in a long while, a faint thread of hope teased at the edges of her guarded heart.