When I arrived at the preschool that afternoon, everything looked exactly the way it always did—cheerful and harmless. Paper snowflakes covered the windows. Tiny mittens were clipped to a string across the wall. Gingerbread men with mismatched googly eyes smiled down from the bulletin board.
Normally, I would have loved it.
That day, it felt unsettling.
Ms. Allen waited until most of the children had been picked up. Ruby was busy at a puzzle table, humming to herself, completely unaware that my chest felt like it was caving in.
She guided me to a small table near the reading corner and slid a piece of red construction paper across the surface.
“I don’t want to overstep,” she said gently, “but I think you should see this.”
My hands started to shake before I even picked it up.
It was a drawing.
Four stick figures stood hand in hand beneath a large yellow star. Three of them were easy to recognize—labeled carefully in my daughter’s uneven handwriting: Mommy, Daddy, and Me.
The fourth figure stopped my breath.
She was taller than me, with long brown hair and a bright red triangle dress. The smile on her face looked confident. Familiar, somehow.
Above her head, Ruby had written a name in big, careful letters.
MOLLY.
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