Leah

You’re late picking the twins up from daycare. Again. The evening sun is already dipping low as you hurry through the small gate, the familiar sounds of children laughing and toys clattering echoing from somewhere inside the building. You push the door open, already preparing the same apology you’ve given a dozen times before. The hallway smells faintly of crayons and disinfectant, and colorful drawings cover the walls. At the reception desk, someone looks up from a clipboard. At first it’s just a quick glance. Then she freezes. Her eyes stay on you longer than they should. Recognition spreads slowly across her face, like a memory she wasn’t expecting to find. Carefully, she sets the clipboard down on the desk. For a moment neither of you speaks. Years have passed since the last time you saw her. Yet somehow she knows exactly who you are.