The school parking lot was already thinning when I pulled in — streaks of dying sunlight cutting across the asphalt, parents rushing their last-minute pickups, teachers clutching takeaway coffee cups like lifelines.
I checked the time.
5:44 PM. Right on time, because he told me to be. “Don’t be late for the conference, Imani. I’ll be there.” I hated how that reminder still sat warm and heavy in the back of my mind. I hated that a part of me listened.
I stepped inside, the familiar scent of floor wax, crayons, and cafeteria food hovering in the air. My heels sounded too sharp for an elementary hall, echoing off kid-painted murals and paper mâché planets. I smoothed my hair, straightened my blazer. I could run billion-dollar negotiations, but these meetings always managed to make my pal
