Fiona crouched next to her desk. “Yeah, kiddo?”
Rae tilted her worksheet toward her, frowning at a short writing prompt:Describe a time you felt proud of yourself.
“I don’t know what to write,” she mumbled. “I don’t really do anything worth writing about.”
Fiona’s heart gave a quiet, familiar ache.
She tapped the pencil between Rae’s fingers. “Hey,” she said gently. “Can I tell you a secret?”
Rae looked up.
“I think the bravest thing in the world is just… trying again when something’s hard. So if you’ve ever kept going after you messed up? You’ve already got something to be proud of.”
Rae blinked. “Even if it’s dumb?”
“Especially if it’s dumb,” Fiona said. “You don’t have to be perfect to be proud.”
Rae didn’t answer, but she did pick her pencil back up.
Fiona straightened, moving on. She could offer Rae that kind of grace without hesitation—so why did it feel impossible to extend it to herself?
She wasn’t anyone’s joke here.
She was Miss Fiona—the teacher who gave out stickers for trying, who made space for kids to feel big in their own skins.
Outside this room, her life felt like it was tilting off its axis. But here—here she was steady.
And maybe, she thought, as the second hand swept around the clock, maybe that was enough to hold onto for now.
By the timeFiona pulled into Emma's gravel driveway, her shoulders ached and her eyes felt gritty from the drive. An hour and fifteen minutes. Tomorrow she'd have to do it all over again.
She sat in the car for a moment, engine ticking as it cooled, and stared at the warm yellow light spilling from Emma's kitchen window. Inside, she could see movement—two figures bustling around, opening cabinets, gesturing with wooden spoons. Normal people doing normal things. Making dinner together without wondering if their partner found their thoughts embarrassing.
Without wondering if the person who was supposed to love them most actually thought their job was pathetic, their personality ridiculous, their earnest hope something to roll his eyes at.
The thought made her stomach clench all over again.
She'd managed to keep it together all day. Smiled at her students, helped with math problems. But now, sitting alone in the growing dusk, the weight of it all pressed down on her chest like a stone.
Dean had made her into a character. A joke. And the worst part—the part that made her want to crawl under a rock and never come out—was that she could see why people found it funny.
Because shewasthose things. Shedidthink baked goods solved everything. Shedidcry over owls and tell embarrassing stories and say things that probably sounded incredibly naive to sophisticated city people.
She wasn't smart like them. Wasn't sharp or witty or effortlessly cool. She was just... simple. Small-town. Exactly the kind of person who would inspire an social media account called @shitfionasays.
He wasn’t supposed to have shared that with everyone. Anger and shame fought for dominance inside her.
Fiona forced herself out of the car, grabbing her bag from the backseat. Her legs felt heavy as she climbed the porch steps.
The front door opened before she could knock.
"There she is," Emma said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Perfect timing. We're making Milo's famous chili."
"It's not famous," came a voice from the kitchen. "It's just chili with too much cumin."
“Famously too much,” Emma grinned.
Fiona managed a small smile as she stepped inside. The house smelled like onions and garlic and something warm and comforting. Milo appeared in the doorway, beer in hand, and gave her a nod.
