Small Town, Big Hope

Chapter13

Bad days.

Small victories nobody else would understand.

She wanted Jackson to know that living in different houses didn’t mean he had to live on the outside of their lives.

Her phone buzzed before she could put it away.

Jackson: Look at my boys. Tell them I love them. And tell Luke he’s got this.

Emma smiled.

She glanced into the backseat.

“Dad says he loves you.”

Christian looked up immediately.

“Did you send him our picture?”

“I did.”

“Did you send the good one?”

“I sent the one where you look normal.”

“That wasn’t the good one.”

Emma laughed.The last few weeks of summer disappeared faster than Emma expected.

Little by little, life had begun settling into something that almost resembled a routine.

Most Friday evenings, Jackson made the drive from Little Rock to pick up the boys for the weekend. Christian usually had his bag packed before Emma reminded him, stuffing entirely too many clothes into it along with whatever baseball glove, ball, or trophy he decided his father absolutely needed to see.

Luke’s packing process was considerably more precise.

Two nights of clothes.

Headphones.

Chargers.

Tablet.

The same pillow he slept with at home.

And a checklist Emma had made and laminated after the first weekend he spent twenty minutes worrying that he had forgotten something.

Jackson had learned not to rush him.

That alone had made the weekends easier.

By Sunday afternoon, the boys usually came spilling back through Emma’s front door carrying stories from Little Rock. Christian talked enough for both of them—what they ate, where they went, whether Jackson let him stay up late, and every minor injustice committed by his brother over the previous forty-eight hours.

Luke usually offered fewer details.

But he always told her whether he had a good weekend.

Most of the time now, the answer was yes.

Emma was grateful for that.

She wanted them to want to go with their father.

That didn’t mean the first few weekends had been easy on her.

The first time Jackson drove away with both boys, Emma had stood in the doorway long after his truck disappeared.

The silence inside the house had been unbearable.

No Christian calling for her from another room.

No Luke asking where something was even though it was exactly where it had always been.

No argument over what they were eating for dinner.

No television playing too loudly.

Nothing.

Emma had wandered from room to room that evening with absolutely no idea what to do with herself.

She had spent so many years measuring her days by what someone else needed that when nobody needed anything, she felt almost useless.

The second weekend wasn't much better.

She cleaned the entire house.

Did every piece of laundry she could find.

Reorganized a kitchen cabinet that had not needed reorganizing.

Then stared at the clock and wondered if calling the boys again would make her seem ridiculous.

By the third weekend, Kinsley had apparently had enough.

She showed up Friday night with takeout and informed Emma that sitting alone at home staring at her phone did not qualify as having plans.

Emma had argued.

Kinsley had ignored her.

Somewhere after that, the weekends began to change.

Emma still missed the boys.

She always would.

But she stopped treating their absence like something she had to survive.

Sometimes she and Kinsley went out.

Sometimes she stayed home and watched something nobody else in the house would have tolerated.

She read an entire book one Saturday without anyone interrupting her.

She took a long shower without somebody yelling “Mom!” through the bathroom door.

Once, she slept until almost nine and woke up so confused by the sunlight coming through the window that she thought something was wrong.

And sometimes she did absolutely nothing.

That had taken the longest to get used to.

She was beginning to understand that being alone didn't have to mean being lonely.

She could miss her boys and still enjoy the quiet.

She could be their mother without every minute of her life belonging to them.

It was strange how guilty that realization made her at first.

Then, slowly, the guilt began to disappear.

She was still figuring out who Emma was when she wasn't Mom.

She hadn't found the answer yet.

But for the first time in years, she was starting to look.

And just as she finally became accustomed to the rhythm of summer weekends, August arrived with backpacks, school supply lists, and the realization that both of her boys were about to take another enormous step into their new life in Hickory Ridge.

One minute, Christian was carrying around his championship trophy like he had personally won the World Series, and the next, Emma was standing in the middle of the kitchen surrounded by pencils, notebooks, glue sticks, folders, and enough school supplies to make her question why children needed an education in the first place.

“Why does one child need four boxes of crayons?”

Christian looked up from the kitchen table.

“Because that’s what the list says.”

“I can read the list.”

“Then why did you ask?”

Emma stared at him.

Across the table, Luke continued organizing his supplies without looking up.

“They probably expect some of them to get lost or broken during the year.”

“Thank you, Luke.”

“You asked.”

“I was complaining.”

Luke paused.

“Oh.”

Monday morning came far too quickly.

By seven-fifteen, Emma had packed lunches, checked backpacks twice, found Christian’s missing water bottle, and reheated the same cup of coffee three times without actually finishing it.

They needed to leave by seven-thirty.

Luke had known that since yesterday.

That hadn’t stopped him from asking.

“What time are we leaving?”

“Seven-thirty.”

Luke looked at the microwave clock.

“It’s seven-sixteen.”

“I know.”

“It takes eleven minutes to get there.”

“I know.”

“If we leave at seven-thirty, we’ll get there at seven-forty-one.”

“That is the plan.”

“What if there’s traffic?”

Emma looked at him.

“In Hickory Ridge?”

“There could be.”

“There could.”

Luke adjusted the straps on his backpack.

“Then we should leave at seven-twenty-five.”

Emma recognized what was happening.

They had already visited the school during open house. He had met Mrs. Reeves and Ms. Carter, walked his schedule, found both sets of bathrooms, seen the cafeteria, and located the resource room.

But visiting an empty school and walking into one filled with hundreds of students were two entirely different things.

“Luke.”

He looked at her.

“We can leave at seven-twenty-five.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly.

“Okay.”

Emma picked up the small zippered pouch sitting beside his backpack.

“Did we check this?”

Luke immediately reached for it.

“Yes.”

“Humor me.”

He unzipped it.

Inside was the little collection of things Emma had learned could make the difference between Luke becoming overwhelmed and Luke being able to work his way through it.

His blue hand spinner.

A soft green squeeze ball.

A small textured strip he could rub between his fingers.

And a backup set of foam earplugs in case he couldn’t use his headphones.

Luke took out the spinner and turned it once between his fingers.

“My headphones are in the big pocket.”

“I know.”

“Not these.”

He touched the noise-reducing headphones hanging around his neck.

“The backup ones.”

Emma nodded. “Both pairs are there.”

Luke put the spinner back inside the pouch and zipped it carefully.

During the IEP meeting, they had made sure his sensory supports were written into his accommodations. Luke was allowed to use quiet fidgets at his desk when he needed them, wear his noise-reducing headphones during independent work or especially loud parts of the day when appropriate, and take sensory breaks before he reached the point of complete overload.

The important part, Emma had explained to his new team, was not waiting until Luke was already overwhelmed.

Once he got there, everything became harder.

Words.

Directions.

Noise.

Even someone asking him what was wrong could feel like another demand his brain couldn’t process.

The goal was to catch it earlier.

The bouncing leg.

The fingers pressing against his ears.

The pacing.

The repeated questions.

The way he sometimes stopped responding altogether when there was simply too much coming at him at once.

His fidgets weren’t toys.

His headphones weren’t a way to ignore people.

They were tools.

Emma wished everyone understood that as easily as Luke did.

Christian came running into the kitchen with half a Pop-Tart in his mouth.

“Where’s my glove?”

Emma stared at him.

“You’re going to school.”

“I know.”

“Why do you need a baseball glove?”

“Carter said we might play catch after school.”

Luke looked at him.

“You’re not bringing a baseball glove to class.”

“I’m putting it in my backpack.”

“It won’t fit.”

“It will.”

“It won’t.”

Christian shoved it inside anyway.

The zipper barely closed.

Christian smiled triumphantly.

Luke frowned.

“You're stretching the zipper.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s going to break.”

“Luke.”

Emma gently touched his arm.

He looked at her.

“Spinner.”

Luke reached into the pouch and pulled it back out.

The soft whir of it turning between his fingers seemed to give him something else to focus on.

Emma watched his shoulders lower.

It was subtle.

But she noticed.

She always noticed.

A few seconds later, Luke looked at the clock.

“Seven-twenty-three.”

Emma grabbed her keys.

“All right. Shoes, backpacks, lunches. Let’s go.”

Christian headed for the door.

Luke stopped beside Emma.

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“What if I need my headphones and Mrs. Reeves is talking?”

“You can let her know.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Use your break card.”

Luke touched the small blue card clipped inside the front pocket of his backpack.

“And Ms. Carter knows?”

“She knows.”

“What if the cafeteria is too loud?”

“You can use your headphones, and if that isn’t enough, you have a plan for where you can go.”

Luke squeezed the ball in his hand.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Emma resisted the urge to tell him everything would be fine.

Because maybe it wouldn’t be.

Maybe something would go wrong.

Maybe lunch would be too loud.

Maybe somebody would bump into him in the hallway.

Maybe the bell would be worse than he expected.

Maybe he would need every single support they had packed into that little pouch.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t do it.

“You have everything you need,” she said instead.

Luke looked at her.

“Even if I get overwhelmed?”

“Especially then.”

He nodded.

“Okay.”

Emma opened the front door.

Christian was already halfway to the car.

Luke stepped onto the porch more slowly, spinner still turning between his fingers and headphones resting around his neck.

He was nervous.

Emma could see it in every part of him.

But he was going.

And sometimes, she was learning, bravery didn’t look like being fearless.

Sometimes it looked like a ten-year-old walking into a brand-new school with a backpack full of sensory tools and a plan for what to do when the world became too loud.

Before the boys could climb into the car, Emma stopped them at the bottom of the porch steps.

“Wait. First-day picture.”

Christian groaned immediately.

“Mom.”

“You knew this was coming.”

Luke looked toward the car.

“We’re going to be late.”

“We have time.”

“We left early because there could be traffic.”

“And there still could be. Stand next to your brother.”

Christian moved beside Luke, throwing an arm around his shoulders before Luke immediately shrugged it off.

“Don’t.”

“I was just trying to make it look like we like each other.”

“We do like each other. You don’t have to touch me.”

Emma laughed.

“Just stand close enough that I can get both of you in the picture.”

Christian grinned at the camera while Luke stood beside him, backpack straps held tightly in both hands and his headphones resting around his neck.

Emma snapped the picture.

Then another.

And one more because Christian had apparently decided making a ridiculous face in the second picture was necessary.

“Done,” she announced.

As the boys climbed into the car, Emma looked down at the first photo.

Christian looked completely ready to take on the world.

Luke looked nervous, even though most people probably wouldn’t notice it. Emma could see it in the tightness around his mouth and the way he gripped his backpack straps.

Still, he was standing there.

Ready to go.

Her thumb hovered over the picture for only a moment before she opened her messages and sent it to Jackson.

First day. Thought you’d want to see them before they went in.

She stared at the message for a second after it sent.

There had been a time when she might have waited for Jackson to ask.

A time when some hurt, stubborn part of her would have thought that if he wanted to know what was happening, then he could make the effort himself.

She didn’t want to do that anymore.

Jackson might not be standing beside her that morning. He might be an hour away in Little Rock getting ready for work while she handled backpacks, lunches, sensory tools, and first-day nerves.

But he was still their father.

And if they were really going to find their way back to being friends—or at the very least become better partners when it came to raising their boys—Emma wanted him included in the ordinary moments too.

Not just baseball championships.

Not just problems.

Not just weekend pickups and Sunday drop-offs.

The everyday things.

First-day pictures.

Missing teeth.

Good report cards.

Luke was quieter.

“What did Dad say?”

Emma looked at him through the rearview mirror.

“He said to tell you that you’ve got this.”

Luke turned his spinner once between his fingers.

A small smile appeared.

“Okay.”

Emma started the car.

Maybe this was what moving forward looked like.

Not fixing everything all at once.

Just choosing, one ordinary moment at a time, not to shut each other out.