I stood outside the preschool gates, feeling like an outsider.
My fingers clutched my bag tighter, knuckles white, and my heart wouldn’t stop pounding.
I felt like I was on the outside of a world I once belonged to.
Would he even want to see me?
The last time I picked Jordan up, he hugged me so tight I could barely breathe. His little arms wrapped around my neck, his breath warm against my skin as he whispered, “Don’t go again.” And I’d left anyway. I told myself it was what I needed, that space was necessary. That I had to heal before I could be the mother he deserved.
But now, I wasn’t sure he’d even look at me.
“Are you Jordan’s mom?” a soft voice asked beside me.
I turned quickly, startled. A preschool teacher with kind eyes and a warm smile stood beside me, her clipboard tucked under her arm.
“Yes,” I answered, my voice coming out smaller than I intended. It trembled at the edges, like an apology.
“He’s finishing snack time. You can come inside if you’d like,” she offered.
I nodd
