For the last six years, I’ve been raising my daughter, Izzy, all by myself. Hi there! I’m Naomi,

and I teach history to middle schoolers in a peaceful suburban neighborhood. Izzy’s father slipped away

from our lives when she was just a little one, leaving me to handle lesson plans, soccer practice,

and a mountain of laundry all on my own. It was tough, but we pulled it off. I discovered the

importance of depending on my own strength and appreciating the little joys—such as Izzy’s playful grin when she cracked

a challenging puzzle or her adorable giggles in the early hours of the day.

Then Marcos arrived. He had just joined our school as the art instructor—a kind-hearted individual

who carried the subtle scent of turpentine and well-loved books. His eyes were warm and crinkled with laughter,

and he carried an effortless confidence that put me at ease. After a few warm conversations in the faculty

lounge and a coffee date that lingered well into the evening, we started to meet up more often.

He was the first person I’d let into our small world since Izzy’s dad walked out.

I couldn’t shake off the worry about how Izzy would take it. At nine years old, she was bright and

inquisitive, always looking out for the two of us with a fierce sense of loyalty. As I softly brought up the

suggestion of meeting a friend of mine, she gave me a cautious glance. “Is there another teacher?” she inquired,

her tone laced with skepticism. “He’s not going to assign me extra homework, right?”