Page 5 of After the Rain

I was feeling more like myself. Professional, competent, in control of my classroom and my emotions.

Then Wade appeared in my doorway.

He looked like he'd made an effort—his polo shirt was pressed, his hair was tamed, and he was carrying a small notebook like he'd come prepared to take notes. But there was still that slightly uncertain energy about him, like he was working hard to project confidence he didn't entirely feel.

The sight of him reminded me why I needed to be careful.

Wade was exactly the kind of parent who could develop misplaced attachments—recently divorced, clearly struggling with the transition to single parenthood, deeply invested in Cooper's wellbeing.

If I wasn't careful to maintain professional boundaries, he might misinterpret my concern for Cooper as personal interest in him.

"Mr. Harrison," I said, standing up and extending my hand. "Thank you for making time tonight."

His handshake was firm and warm, lasting just a moment before I pulled back to maintain appropriate distance. "Thanks for staying late. I know these conferences are a long day for you."

"It's my favorite part of the job, actually. Getting to talk one-on-one with parents about their kids."

Wade settled into the chair I'd positioned across from my desk, and I launched into my prepared presentation about Cooper's academic progress. Math skills, reading development, social interactions, fine motor development—all the benchmarks that parents wanted to hear about.

But somewhere in the middle of discussing Cooper's advanced spatial reasoning abilities, our conversation shifted from purely professional to something more collaborative.

"He gets that from building with you," I said, showing Wade a block structure Cooper had created during free play.

"The way he thinks about three-dimensional relationships is really sophisticated for his age.

This structure demonstrates understanding of balance, proportion, and engineering principles that most kids don't develop until second grade. "

Wade studied the photo with genuine interest, his architect's eye clearly engaged.

"We've been working on a Lego city together.

He's got ideas about traffic flow and zoning that would impress my business partner.

Last weekend he redesigned the whole layout because he said the fire trucks couldn't get to the hospital fast enough. "

"That's incredible. You're giving him such a strong foundation for mathematical thinking, but also for systems thinking and problem-solving. Those weekend projects are reinforcing everything we're working on in class."

"I'm just trying to keep up with him, honestly." Wade looked up from the photo, and I could see the uncertainty beneath his carefully constructed confidence. "Sometimes I feel like I'm making it all up as I go along."

There was vulnerability in his voice that made me want to offer reassurance. Not because I was attracted to him, but because supporting parents was part of my job—and because Cooper deserved a father who felt confident in his abilities.

"Single parenting is tough. You're doing an amazing job."

"Am I?" He leaned back in his chair, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Because most days I feel like I'm constantly playing catch-up. Like there are things Sarah would have caught that I'm completely missing."

"Cooper feels loved and supported. He talks about you constantly—your weekend projects, the things you teach him, how much fun you have together. When we did our family writing exercise last week, he wrote three pages about building the treehouse with you. That's what matters."

Wade was quiet for a moment, looking down at his notebook where he'd been jotting down notes about reading strategies. "He drew a picture last week. Our family. But he included you in it."

I felt my chest tighten with familiar anxiety. This was how it started—children forming attachments that parents might misinterpret as inappropriate. "That's actually quite common. Children often include important figures from their daily lives in family portraits. Teachers, coaches, babysitters."

"I wasn't sure what to make of it. I mean, you've only been his teacher for three weeks."

"Children form attachments quickly, especially when they're going through transitions. Cooper feels safe here. That's a good thing."

"It is." Wade's voice was soft. "It's just... he's had so many changes lately. I want to make sure he has stability, you know? Positive influences."

"He does. You're giving him exactly what he needs."

I found myself sharing insights from my educational training that I rarely discussed with parents—attachment theory, trauma-informed practices, the importance of emotional regulation in learning.

Wade absorbed it all, asked thoughtful questions, made connections between my suggestions and things he'd observed at home.

It was the kind of deep, collaborative conversation about a child's development that I'd always hoped to have with parents but rarely did.

Most conferences focused on grades and behavior, surface-level concerns that missed the complexity of how children actually learned and grew.

This felt different—like talking to someone who genuinely understood that education was about the whole child, not just academic achievement.

"What about homework expectations?" Wade asked as our official conference time wound down. "I want to make sure I'm supporting what you're doing in class without overwhelming him."

"Honestly? At this age, the best homework is play. Cooper's learning more from building with you on weekends than he would from worksheets. Keep reading together, keep encouraging his questions, keep letting him explore and create. That's exactly what his brain needs right now."

Wade smiled, and I appreciated his obvious relief. "So I don't need to buy workbooks or flashcards?"

"God, no. Cooper's way beyond flashcards. He needs challenges that match his ability level and interests. If you want structured activities, I can recommend some logic puzzles and building sets that would be perfect for him."

"That would be great. He gets bored with the typical kindergarten homework."

"Because it's too easy for him. Cooper's academically gifted, Wade. We should be challenging him appropriately, not holding him back."

Wade's eyes widened slightly. "Gifted? Really?"

"Absolutely. His cognitive abilities are significantly advanced for his age. We'll want to start thinking about enrichment opportunities, maybe acceleration in specific subject areas. But we can discuss that more as the year progresses."

When our official conference time ended, neither of us moved to wrap up the conversation.

"I should let you get to your next appointment," Wade said, but he didn't stand up.

"You're actually my last one for tonight."

"Oh." He smiled, and there was genuine warmth in it that made me glad I could help. "In that case, can I ask about those logic puzzles you mentioned? I'd love some specific recommendations."

We talked for another fifteen minutes about educational resources, learning games, ways to nurture Cooper's creativity while providing appropriate challenges. Wade took notes like he was preparing for the bar exam, clearly determined to be the best possible parent for Cooper.

Finally, reluctantly, he closed his notebook and stood up. "Thank you for this. Really. I feel like I understand so much more about how to help him."

"Anytime. That's what I'm here for."

Wade paused at my classroom door, turning back like he wanted to say something else. "Cooper's lucky to have you as his teacher."

"I'm lucky to have him as a student."

After he left, I sat alone in my classroom feeling energized by our conversation.

It wasn't often that I had the chance to discuss educational theory with a parent who was genuinely interested in understanding child development.

Wade's questions had been thoughtful, his engagement authentic, and his commitment to Cooper's wellbeing was obvious.

This was why I loved teaching—moments like this, when I could see that my work was making a real difference in a child's life. Cooper was lucky to have a father who cared enough to ask the right questions and listen to the answers.

An hour later, I was sitting across from Brook Chen at our usual booth in the Moonbeam Diner, picking at a burger I wasn't really hungry for. We always grabbed dinner after conference nights, a tradition that helped us decompress from the intensity of back-to-back parent meetings.

"You seem more relaxed than usual after conferences," Brook observed, stealing one of my fries. "Good night overall?"

"Really good, actually. I had some great conversations with parents who are genuinely invested in their kids' development. It's refreshing when families see education as a partnership."

"Anyone in particular stand out?"

I thought about Wade's earnest questions about supporting Cooper's giftedness. "Cooper Harrison's dad. The kid is academically gifted, and his father actually wanted to understand what that means for his development. Most parents just want to know if their kid is meeting grade-level expectations."

"That's the recently divorced architect, right? The one with the adorable kid who builds impressive Lego structures?"

"That's him. Wade's clearly working hard to be a good single parent. It shows in Cooper's adjustment to kindergarten—the kid feels secure and supported despite all the family changes."

Brook studied my face with the expression she usually reserved for solving complex problems. "And how are you feeling about working with this family?"

I knew what she was really asking. Brook had been my closest friend since I'd moved to Cedar Falls, the one person who knew the full story about what had happened in Portland. She worried about me, sometimes to the point of overprotectiveness.