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Then he looked at me.
“What do you think?”
“I think you should let her help a little.”
He looked wounded.
“I knew you’d say that.”
“No, you hoped I wouldn’t.”
He leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“I’m scared she’ll become necessary.”
“That’s not the worst thing.”
“It is if she leaves again.”
There it was.
The truest fear.
Not anger.
Not jealousy.
Abandonment repeating itself.
I took his hand.
“Then we don’t build Emma’s life on Rachel alone. We build it like a table with many legs. You. Me. Rachel, if she proves steady. Friends. Teachers. People who love her. That way, if one leg wobbles, the whole table doesn’t fall.”
He sat quietly.
“That was definitely on a classroom poster.”
“No,” I said. “That one I earned.”
He squeezed my hand.
During Jackson’s six-week training, we made a schedule.
Martha on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays.
Rachel on Tuesdays for preschool pickup and dinner at my house.
Saturday mornings with Jackson.
Sunday dinner all together if everyone could handle it.
The first Tuesday, Rachel arrived fifteen minutes early with a car seat installed properly, a bag of Emma’s favorite crackers, and eyes full of terror.
“I watched three safety videos,” she confessed.
Jackson checked the car seat anyway.
Rachel let him.
No attitude.
No complaint.
That mattered.
When Emma ran out of preschool, she had a paper sunflower in her hand.
“Rachel! Nana! Daddy’s at training to help sick kids!”
Rachel crouched.
“He is.”
“Daddy helps everybody.”
Rachel looked at me.
Her eyes shone.
“Yes,” she said. “He does.”
That evening, Emma spilled soup on Rachel’s sleeve.