5
C
harlotte and I talked long that morning. She told me about their first days, how hard it was for the children to understand they couldn’t go home, about their wails when their parents came to visit the building after the police had cleared out the bodies, about how she had eventually realized that she was going to be responsible for these children forever.
“I love these children, Mary.” She looked me in the eye as she said it. “But I’m their teacher, not their mama.” As her eyes grazed the tiny faces in the corner, she whispered, “I’m so tired.”
I sat with her until the children grew restless and we could see the pinchy shape of their voices going after each other. I felt older as I rested my hand on her arm before I walked toward the door.
I walked home this time in the shadow wi
