The class had been completing timed multiplication worksheets. Emma had not finished before the timer rang. Mrs. Gable told her she was delaying everyone and ordered her to stand beside the chalkboard.
A few students laughed.
Emma had tried not to cry.
Then Mrs. Gable asked why she had not practiced. Emma explained that she had practiced with me, but numbers sometimes moved around when she became nervous.
I knew what she meant. We were waiting for an educational assessment after her pediatrician suggested she might have a learning difference affecting numerical processing.
Mrs. Gable called it an excuse.
“She said I was acting helpless because people feel sorry for children without mothers,” Emma whispered.
My hands tightened beneath the table.
Mercer noticed, but her voice remained gentle.
“What happened next?”
“I told her not to talk about my mom.”
Emma’s mother, Claire, had died five years earlier after a sudden illness. Emma remembered only fragments: Claire singing while washing dishes, the scent of lavender lotion, the silver bracelet she wore on Sundays.
“What did Mrs. Gable do when you said that?” Mercer asked.
“She grabbed my arm and took me into the hall.”
“Did she hurt you?”
Emma looked down.
“She squeezed hard.”
“Then what?”
“She opened the storage room and said I could come out when I was ready to apologize.”
“Did she say how long that would be?”
Emma shook her head.
“I said I was sorry right away, but she closed the door.”
The paper birds continued turning overhead.
