I smile. “Sorry, kid.”

“You don’t look sorry,” he mutters before plopping back and covering his face. “Can you shut off the light so I don’t go blind?”

“Nope.”

I leave him and head back for the kitchen, where I pour myself a cup of coffee and start breakfast. At just thirty-two, I shouldn’t have two kids my boys’ age. Then again, I shouldn’t have been having sex at sixteen and knocking up my high school girlfriend by the age of seventeen. And I really shouldn’t have stupidly knocked her up again six years later, long after things ended between us. As stupid as my decisions were, I regret nothing. I love my boys and can’t imagine a life without them in it. They are why I work two jobs and have a reason to get out of bed most mornings.

I finish breakfast—scrambled eggs and toast—then wait. Like clockwork, both my boys come into view, each looking almost exactly like me at their age. Tall, and fit without putting work in. Max’s hair is a dirty blond and he’s a little lankier than his brother, but I have no doubt that will change in a few years. They sit on the barstools across from me and I hand over plates to each of them, watching as they start to devour their food in a few bites. With the way they eat, I might need to get a third job. I swear I cannot keep enough food stocked for the two of them, even with a Sam’s Club membership and buying in bulk.

“I’m taking you to school, and Grandma is picking you up. I should be home not long after you get here.”

“I have track after school,” Mitchell reminds me before shoving the last bite of the toast left on his plate into his mouth. This is the first year Mitchell has been in track, the high school track coach convinced him to try out after seeing him run. And after some debating Mitchell decided to give it a year to see if he liked it. So far so good, who knows what will happen next year.

“She’ll pick up Max then wait for you.”

“I don’t know why I have to hang with Grandma. Especially when I’m old enough to sit home alone for a couple hours. It isn’t even like I get to watch him play baseball,” Max bickers.

I look at my youngest and pull up patience. Mitchell has always done what’s asked without question, when his brother has had a question for everything since he was old enough to form words into a sentence. My boys couldn’t be more opposite if they tried. The only thing the two of them have in common is baseball. Where they got the love for the game, I don’t know, because I didn’t have any interest in the sport growing up and the only reason I do now is because of them.

“When you turn ten, we’ll talk about you being here alone for a few hours.”

“Flipping great. I only have to wait another freakin year.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Mitchell scolds, and Max turns to glare at him.

Knowing what will happen if I let this shit carry on, I cut in. “Cut it out, Max. You know I cannot leave you home alone, and Mitch, I don’t need your help.”

Both boys look at me, each with a look of remorse. Fuck, I love my boys. They are good kids, even after dealing with the shit they have in their short lives. Like all kids, they push boundaries, but they tend to listen without too much of a fight.

“Tonight is takeout, so figure out what you want to eat and send me a message. I’ll pick it up before I come home.”

“Pizza,” Max says.

“Chinese,” Mitchell puts in.

“All right, change of plans. I’ll let you know when I’m off work and you two can call in your orders. I’ll pick the shit up.”

They both smile at me then go back to eating. When they’re done, they drop their dishes in the dishwasher and go to finish getting ready and grab their bags. I sip my coffee as I look out the glass doors in the kitchen. We have a great yard. A large, concrete patio with a table and chairs, the barbeque, and lots of green space—not quite perfect for a game of baseball, but definitely perfect for a dog.

The boys have asked for one in the past, but I never wanted to get one until they were old enough to take on some of the responsibility. They’re old enough now, and it’s something I should talk to them about.

On that thought, I move to the kitchen, dump the rest of my coffee down the drain, and set my cup in the dishwasher as I hear the boys hit the living room. I meet them at the front door, and they both head down the porch as I lock up. Once we’re loaded into my SUV, I take them each to school and go to work. Like every day, I work until I’m exhausted, wishing I were more than just a mechanic and part-time tattooist. I wish I had more, not for myself but for my boys.

Three

December

“APRIL FOOLS!” I say loudly, slamming the book I’m holding closed, and the kids sitting in front of me jump then start to laugh. I smile at them, enjoying the way their eyes have lit up.

I love my job as a first grade teacher. There’s something so innocent but curious about the way kids at this age view the world around them. And watching them grow mentally and physically each and every day while they’re under my care makes my job seem important, vital even.

“Ms. Mayson, will you read another book?” Hanson asks as the other kids around him start to get up off the bright carpet, filled with too much energy to sit any longer.

“Not until Monday, honey.”

I touch his soft cheek with the tips of my fingers, and watch his eyes close briefly as he whispers disappointedly, “Okay.”

I wonder—not for the first time this year—what his home life is like. His mom and dad are both nice in an uptight way, but neither of them seem to be very affectionate with him, which is sad. He’s a great kid, a little shy but so smart it’s almost scary. He’s already mastered reading at a third grade level and has better penmanship than some adults I know. He’s also my favorite, even though I shouldn’t have favorites.

“How about you choose which book we read during circle time on Monday?”

“Really?”

“Really.” I watch a smile take over his whole face.

“Cool,” he says, getting up and heading over to two of his buds.

I look at the clock near the door, and announce as I stand, “All right, kids, time to pack up. It’s almost time to go home.”

It’s Friday, and even at six years old, most of these kids understand the beauty of the weekend. I walk across the room, feeling the excitement in the air as they pick up their things, shoving their work into their backpacks and school stuff into their desks.

When I reach the front of the class, I remind them, “Don’t forget to have your parents sign up for what is needed for our class party next week. The list is online.” I get a few smiles before a soft chime fills the room, stealing their attention. All the kids grab their bags in a rush to get to the door and line up. When I reach the door and open it, their parents or caregivers who have been waiting out in the hall come in, offering me smiles and hellos before greeting the kids with hugs or soft words.

Like always, the room fills with chatter until one by one the kids leave and silence ensues. The quiet is almost deafening, especially after spending the last several hours answering questions and keeping a bunch of children on task. I go around the room, picking up things left out and straightening up until I know the cleaning crew will be able to do their job over the weekend without the hassle of uncluttering.