Page 9 of After the Rain

FOUR

BUILDING BLOCKS

EZRA

T he family tree worksheet looked like it had been through a war zone.

Cooper stood at my desk during Friday afternoon cleanup, his backpack dragging behind him like a dead weight, staring down at the crumpled paper with the kind of defeat that only six-year-olds could manage. The assignment that should have been simple had become a battlefield, and Cooper was losing.

"Mr. Mitchell," he said, his voice small and frustrated. "I can't make my family tree work right. Mommy and Daddy don't live in the same house anymore, and I don't know how to draw that."

My chest tightened. The damn worksheet was designed for 1950s nuclear families, complete with a house drawn at the base and neat little branches for Mom, Dad, and kids. No consideration for divorce, single parents, or any of the dozen different ways modern families actually looked.

Traditional assignments like this were a minefield for half my students. I made another mental note to talk to the curriculum committee about more inclusive alternatives.

I knelt down to Cooper's level, examining the paper he'd worked so hard on. He'd started to draw his parents on the same branch, then erased it. Started again with separate branches, then erased that too. The worksheet was a mess of eraser marks and frustrated pencil scratches.

"You know what?" I said, smoothing out the paper. "Family trees can look lots of different ways. Some have branches that spread out, some have strong roots in different places. What matters is all the people who love you."

Cooper's face brightened slightly, but I could see he was still struggling with the concept.

"But the worksheet says?—"

"The worksheet is just one way to show families. We can make yours better."

The classroom was emptying out as parents arrived for pickup, and I could see Wade through the window, walking across the parking lot with that slightly hurried gait that had become familiar over the past few weeks. Cooper saw him too and suddenly looked even more deflated.

"I don't want Daddy to think I can't do my homework."

"Cooper, your dad would never think that. Let's talk to him together, okay?"

Wade appeared in the doorway, and I watched his face immediately focus on Cooper's subdued mood. It was one of the things I'd noticed about Wade—he was tuned in to his son's emotional state in a way that spoke to genuine care rather than obligation.

"Hey, buddy," Wade said, crouching down to Cooper's level. "How was your day?"

Cooper held up the crumpled worksheet. "I can't do my family tree. It's broken."

Wade's face cycled through a series of emotions—guilt, frustration, and finally determination. He looked at me over Cooper's head, and I saw the question there: How do I help him with this?

"The assignment assumes a traditional family structure," I explained, keeping my voice gentle. "Cooper's having trouble figuring out how to represent his family now that you and his mom live in different houses."

Wade ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I was learning to recognize as his processing mode. "I want to help him, but I don't want to make it more confusing."

I opened my mouth to suggest some strategies they could try at home, then stopped.

This was exactly the kind of situation that called for individualized support, the kind of extra attention that made teaching worthwhile.

But it was also the kind of attention that could be misinterpreted, especially by parents who were already suspicious of my motives.

The smart thing would be to send them home with some general suggestions and maintain professional distance.

"If you'd like," I heard myself saying instead, "I could come over tomorrow morning and help Cooper brainstorm different ways to represent his family. Sometimes a fresh perspective helps."

The offer surprised me as much as it surprised Wade. I'd been thinking it, sure, but actually voicing it felt like stepping over a line I wasn't sure I should cross.

Wade's face lit up with genuine gratitude. "That would be amazing. Are you sure? I don't want to impose on your weekend."

This is where you should backtrack, I told myself. This is where you suggest he bring Cooper back after school Monday instead.

"I'm sure. Cooper's creativity deserves better than a worksheet that doesn't fit his reality."

As we finalized plans for Saturday morning, I caught Mrs. Henderson smiling warmly at our interaction.

But Mrs. Garrett, collecting her daughter from the cubbies, wore an expression that was less welcoming.

Her eyes lingered on Wade and me in a way that made me wonder what conclusions she was drawing.

I reminded myself that offering homework help was part of my job. Teachers did this kind of thing all the time. The fact that my anticipation about seeing Wade's home environment felt more personal than professional was my own business.

Saturday morning arrived gray and drizzly, typical Pacific Northwest weather that made staying inside seem like the best possible plan.

I pulled up to Wade's address and found myself sitting in my Honda for a moment, taking in the craftsman bungalow with its wide front porch and well-maintained yard.

The sound of power tools hummed from inside, and I could hear Cooper's excited voice mixing with Wade's patient instructions. The front door was wide open despite the cool morning, and through the screen door I could see movement and activity.

This was a home being actively lived in and improved, so different from my orderly apartment where everything had its place and nothing was ever out of alignment.

You could still leave, I thought, my hands gripping the steering wheel. Text that you're feeling sick, that you'll help Cooper with the project Monday during lunch.

But even as the thought crossed my mind, Wade appeared in the doorway, safety glasses pushed up on his forehead, sawdust dusting his dark hair. He looked appealingly rumpled in worn jeans and a t-shirt that had clearly seen better days, and when he spotted my car, his face broke into a smile.

That smile did something to my chest. Something warm and dangerous and completely unprofessional.

Too late now.

"Perfect timing," he said, pushing open the screen door as I approached the porch. "Cooper's been up since six asking when you'd get here."

"Sorry if I'm early."

"Are you kidding? Come in, please. Fair warning—we're in the middle of a project."

He gave me a quick tour while explaining the ongoing renovation work.

The hardwood floors had been restored to their original beauty, gleaming under the morning light.

Crown molding that looked original but was probably painstakingly recreated framed every room.

The kitchen had been opened up to create better flow between rooms, with period-appropriate fixtures that had clearly been chosen with both authenticity and functionality in mind.

"Did you do all this yourself?" I asked, running my hand along a perfectly restored window frame. The wood was smooth as silk, stained to highlight the natural grain.

"Most of it. It's been a work in progress since we moved in. Cooper likes to help with the non-dangerous parts." Wade gestured toward the kitchen, where I could see child-sized tool marks on a piece of practice wood. "He's got his own workbench in the garage."

I could see Wade's devotion to creating a good home for Cooper in every carefully considered detail.

The built-in bookshelves at exactly Cooper's height, the lowered coat hooks, the artwork displayed at six-year-old eye level.

But this wasn't just child-proofing—it was beautiful craftsmanship that happened to be kid-friendly.

"This is incredible work," I said, genuinely impressed. "The attention to detail is museum quality."

Wade's cheeks flushed with pleasure, and something in my stomach fluttered at the sight. "Architecture school taught me to appreciate the bones of a building. But the real skill is in the execution. Each piece of wood has its own personality—you have to work with it, not against it."

He showed me where he'd carefully preserved original details like the decorative spindles in the staircase banister, explaining how he'd had to research 1920s construction techniques to restore them properly.

His passion for the craft was evident in every word, every gesture, and I found myself watching the way his hands moved as he spoke—strong, capable hands with calluses from real work.

There was something deeply attractive about competence, about watching someone who was genuinely skilled at creating beautiful things.

The kitchen smelled like pancakes and coffee, evidence of Wade's attempt at impressive breakfast hospitality. Cooper bounced between showing me his latest Lego creation and helping Wade flip pancakes, clearly comfortable having his teacher in their home space.

"Mr. Mitchell! Look what I built!" Cooper thrust a complex spaceship into my hands. "It has escape pods and everything!"

"This is incredible engineering," I said, examining the intricate design. "Tell me how the escape pods work."

As Cooper launched into a detailed explanation of his ship's features, I watched Wade move around the kitchen with easy confidence. He'd clearly put effort into making breakfast special—real maple syrup, fresh berries, coffee that smelled considerably better than the sludge they served at school.

Being included in their Saturday morning routine felt unexpectedly intimate.

Not sexual intimacy, but the kind of domestic closeness that came from sharing ordinary moments.

The way Cooper automatically set three places at the table, the way Wade poured my coffee without asking how I liked it, the way they moved around each other in the kitchen like a choreographed dance.