"Hey, kiddo! Where is everybody? Huh?"

I lose feeling in the tips of my fingers and can't move from the spot I'm rooted in. The only thought swirling in my mind, the only one that has made its way through, is I hate when he calls her 'kiddo.'

"Hello?" Luke calls out, his voice friendly and boisterous.

"Daddy, look! Mommy got me three new Barbies."

Hearing Chelsea's voice a second time makes me shove my chair away from the table and stand up roughly, walking into a storm I thought I'd fled. But she's in there with him, and I have to get her out. Get him away from her and away from this house where I thought I'd found solace with a peaceful holiday for the first time in forever.

When I get up, Jesse and Chloe stand, too, almost as if on cue. We don't say anything - no one does. The rest of the Bellas don't know the backstory between me and Luke, but I assume it's not hard to figure out with the way I'm acting. Not even Amy, who's known for her horrible timing, speaks.

"Chelsea," I call, a warning. It goes ignored, though, because Luke has gone on a tangent.

"Three new Barbies, huh?" he says, just as I round the corner. I sense Jesse and Chloe behind me, prickling and ready to leap into action. "Well, how about this? I got you a brand-spankin'-new Barbie. Not even out of her box yet. Have you ever had one of those?" I catch sight of Luke just as he pulls an ostentatious box out of his messenger bag with an untouched doll inside. It's one of those collector's items that I've always deemed unnecessary. Chelsea is rough with her toys. She's going to rip that thing out of the box and destroy it - what was the sense on spending so much money on it? But for Luke, sense wasn't part of the equation. All that mattered was winning her over and one-upping me, which have both been achieved.

"Whoa!" she exclaims, taking the box with both hands and staring at it with wide, amazed eyes. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa! I never even had a fancy one like this before! Whoa, whoa!" She looks at Luke, still gripping the box with everything she has. "Thank you, daddy! Thank you, thank you! This is the most awesome thing ever!" Then, her eyes land on me. "Look, mommy!" she cheers, running over. "Look at how fancy Barbie is! Daddy me her. Can you help me open the box?"

"Hey, Chels," Cynthia Rose beckons from the dining room. "Why don't you come in here and we'll help you with that box?"

I thank her silently, closing my eyes for a long beat as Chelsea scampers a few rooms away, accompanied by women who will keep her away from the mess that's inevitably about to occur.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, finally gathering the courage to speak. Luke looks the same as the last time I saw him; equally as disheveled with an unstable look in his eye. There's something not right about him, and it makes me uneasy. Like he could lash out at any moment. I find myself shrinking back, folding into myself. I don't want what happened last time to happen again - though I don't think he would get rough with me in front of all these people, I'm not sure what he's capable of.

"It's Friendsgiving," he answers with a casual shrug and smile. "We come to Chloe's every year. Figured that just because I didn't get a formal invite didn't mean I wasn't welcome."

"That's exactly what it meant," Chloe says, stepping in. "Get out, Luke."

He shoots her a strange, amused look. "I came here to talk to my wife," he says. "It doesn't involve you."

"You're in my house, so it does," she says, standing her ground. "I'd like you to leave. Beca doesn't want to talk to you."

"Why don't we let her speak for herself?" he challenges, coming a bit closer. Then, he lifts his eyes away from me so they rest on Jesse, who's standing at my side. Too close for friendship, and Luke knows it. "Oh, I see what's going on," he says, chuckling as he shakes his head. "The boyfriend is back. Was this your plan all along?"

"Stop," I say weakly, then feel sick over how pathetic my voice sounds. I'm stronger than this. Why does he lessen me to such a shell? Why do I allow myself to be so scared of him?

"You always did have a soft spot for the bastard, didn't you?" he says, the sugar-sweetness disappearing from his voice. "For what reason, I'll never know." He walks towards Jesse, but Jesse doesn't back down, in fact, he meets him right in the middle. "Are you fucking my wife?" he asks, sardonic smile still on his face.

"No," Jesse answers calmly. "But even so, she's not your wife. And she asked you to leave."

Luke raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Oh, are you pissed?" he says, then laughs. "Do something about it. Are you gonna hit me?"

"No," Jesse says, jaw clenched. "But you need to leave. I heard what you did, and if you don't get out, I'm gonna call the police."

"Heard what I did?" Luke says, getting angry as he makes eye contact with me. "Beca, are you telling our business to this asshole? Why would you do that? Do you think I go parading around telling people shit about you?"

I cross my arms and duck my head, strength wavering. "You hit me," I murmur.

"When?" he says. "Come on, when? Give me one time I hit you and I'll lay off." I don't respond right away, so he continues. "That's what I thought, you fuckin' liar. Anything to get attention and paint me in a bad light. That's fuckin' typical. You're such a bitch."

"Hey!" Jesse says, stepping towards Luke to get him away from me.

Luke shoves Jesse's chest and makes him take a stutter step back, and I gasp because of it. I can't handle a physical fight, not after everything that's happened. "I know you two are fucking," Luke sneers. "You have been for years, haven't you? That's why you wanted out. God, I'm so stupid."

Jesse pulls out his phone and brings up the dial pad, pushing '911' with his thumb poised over the green button. "I'm calling the police," he says. "If your ass isn't out of here in five seconds."

"I'm really glad you have him to protect you, Beca," Luke says, flashing an artificial smile. "That's so great for you and Chels. Speaking of Chels, have you brainwashed her with all this shit yet? Does she call him 'daddy'?"

"Fuck you," I say, but I wish it were stronger.

"Luke, you need to go!" Chloe shrills, then walks to the door and opens it wide so he has plenty of space to exit. "Leave, now! You're not welcome here now or ever." Luke stands in place, staring me down with those ice blue eyes, and I can't break from his gaze. Chloe's voice splits the moment, though, when she says, "Jesse, do it. Call."

"Don't fuckin' call," Luke says, finally moving as he walks backwards, eyes still cemented on me. "I'm fuckin' going. You don't need to make a big production out of it. I just wanted to come and see my kid, see my wife on a holiday. But if you guys can't play nice, I'll leave."

"She's not your wife," Jesse says, ushering Luke towards the open door.

"Right, 'cause she's yours," Luke says. "Don't forget me when you send out the wedding invites. Don't worry, mate, she'll make shit up about you someday, too. Then maybe we can have a drink and talk about it."

"Burn in hell," Jesse says.

"Oh!" Luke laughs. "Alrighty, then. Guess I'll be going." He clears his throat and shouts, "Bye, Chelsea! I can't stay, sweetie, Mommy is making me leave!" And before she can run into the room to refute it, he walks out and Chloe shuts the door behind him.

I stand rigid until the car drives away, then collapse onto the couch as soon as Chelsea runs in. "Where's Daddy?" she asks, new Barbie in hand.

I can't answer her. My mind is blank and I'm rattled - literally shaking. Jesse sits next to me and winds an arm around my shoulders, and tears stream effortlessly down my cheeks.

"Mommy, where's Daddy?" Chelsea asks again. "Did you make him leave?"

"Chels, honey, come on. Let's go back to the dining room," Chloe says gently.

But, stubborn as she is, Chelsea doesn't move. "Why'd you make him go?" she insists. "He's nice now! Why'd you make him go if he's nice now?" Her face crumples and all I can do is stare. I have no answers. "It's all your fault," Chelsea says, then turns around and storms back into the other room like Chloe had suggested.

"She doesn't know what she's saying," Chloe tells me, but her words fall on deaf ears. I try to nod anyway, but my entire body is trembling and I'm not sure if it's discernible.

"Hey, it's alright," Jesse says, rubbing the outside of my arm slowly, rhythmically. He looks up at Chloe and mutters, "Maybe some water would help."

"Sure," she says, then rushes to get it.

"He's gone," Jesse assures me after a silence has fallen over the room. "You know that, right?" I nod again as best I can. "Okay. Good." He shakes his head. "God, I'm so sorry that happened. I can still call the police, if you want."

"I don't know."

"Okay," he says. "We don't have to figure it out right now."

Then, Chloe comes back with a small glass of water that she hands over. Jesse keeps his arm around me as I try to drink it, but I'm still shaking so badly that a lot of it misses the mark and ends up splashing my chest, dampening my shirt. "Shit," I mutter.

"It's okay," Chloe says, taking the glass. "Maybe you should lay down for a while. Jesse, do you wanna maybe take her upstairs? My guest bedroom is all made up. Becs, you could-"

"No," I say. "Thank you, but no. I just… I wanna get Chelsea and go home."

Chloe gives me a wary look that I can feel. "I don't know if you're in the greatest shape to drive right now," she says.

"I'm fine," I say. "I just wanna get out of here. I'll feel better at home. Where's Chels?"

"Beca…"

"Hey, why don't you let me drive you," Jesse suggests gently. "Just to be safe. I'll put Chelsea to bed so you can regroup. If you want."

I look at him, disarmed. But I surprise myself by answering affirmatively with, "Sure."

"Alright," he says, somewhat taken aback. "Yeah, good. Um, so we should find Chelsea. You just wait here, okay? I can get her."

I sit on the couch and disappear inside my head as Jesse gathers my indignant daughter, somehow getting her into her shoes and coat before I'm even in mine. By the time we're all heading out the door, I'm worrying about what the rest of the Bellas must be thinking. I know Chloe will do damage control and explain what needs to be explained - nothing else - but still, the feeling isn't good. All the embarrassing and shameful parts of my life were just broadcasted for them all to see and judge. Not that I think they would judge me, but I don't like showing my vulnerability so forcefully.

Jesse drives my car and I don't bother asking how he plans on getting back to his. I'm sure we'll figure it out, but I don't have the space to think about it right now. Chelsea buckles herself into her booster seat surrounded by Barbies, including the fancy one that Luke got her. I let my eyes linger on her and she looks back, but her eyes don't hold anger anymore. I'm not sure what's inside them, and I don't like the feeling of not knowing. It's becoming too common.

"You're mad at Daddy," Chelsea states as we back out of the driveway. "And he made you sad. That's why we have to leave. Right?"

I nod slowly, still swiveled to look at her. She runs one hand over the new Barbie's shiny, un-matted hair. I wonder how long it will take for the pristine state of it to change.

"Why were you fighting with him?" she asks.

I bite the inside of my lip and wonder how to explain this. I take a deep breath and promise myself that, for her, I'll try my best. She deserves to know the truth, or at least a version that she can handle. "Your dad and I aren't good together anymore," I say. "He makes bad choices and those choices scare me. I don't want him around you when he's making those choices, because they affect you. And what I care about most in the world is keeping you safe."

She meets my eyes steadily and I expect either a rebuttal or more questioning, but instead she nods and says, "Okay."

I study her for a beat longer, wondering what could possibly be going on in her head. "Are you okay?" I ask her.

"Yeah."

"Are you sure? Did your daddy scare you?"

She shakes her head then holds up the doll. "He gave me this."

"I know," I say, then turn around to face forward with my chin resting on my closed fist. I stare out the front windshield and let Chelsea's voice wander to the back of my mind as she talks to her dolls, only listening actively when she addresses Jesse.

"Jesse," she says. "You know what?"

"Hmm?"

"Auntie Chloe told me all about how you and my mom used to love each other when you were in college. Is that real?"

If Jesse is caught off guard, his voice doesn't show it. "Yeah," he says, not missing a beat. "She wouldn't lie to you."

"My mom was your girlfriend?"

"She was," he says.

"You were her boyfriend?"

"Yep."

"Did you like being her boyfriend?"

"I sure did," he says, and if I'm not mistaken, I hear him smile.

"Does that mean you loved her?"

"Yeah, for sure," he says.

"Lots?"

"Tons."

"Did she love you back like that?"

He glances my way, but I don't look back. I'm in too much pain wondering about what could've, might've been, had life not taken its twists and turns. "Well, you'll have to ask her that," he says. "When she feels up to answering."

"Mommy, did you love Jesse? Lots and lots, or just a little?"

I look towards him with only my eyes to find his still on me. We lock gazes and don't smile, but the expression on his face is warm. I have no idea what mine is. "I loved him a lot," I tell her.

"Like you used to love Daddy, too?"

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Different," I say. "In a very different way."

…

When we walk in the door, a whole new wave of emotion hits and I start to cry again. I try to hide it; I don't like to cry around Chelsea, but she notices anyway.

"Mommy, you're crying," she says, pressing her hands to my stomach and peering up at me. "Don't cry. Are you sad 'cause of Daddy?" I sniffle to try and compose myself, but it doesn't quite work. I cover my mouth with one hand and make eye contact with my daughter, finding her gaze incredibly worried. "It's okay, mommy," she says. "Don't be sad. Stop crying."

"I'm fine," I say, wiping beneath my eyes and smiling, probably doing a horrible job of convincing her that there's any validity behind my words. "I'm fine, I promise."

She eyes me for a long moment, then Jesse lays a hand on her shoulder. "I was hoping I could read to you tonight," he says, raising his eyebrows. "You think that would be okay?"

"Can you put a braid in my hair, too?" she asks hopefully.

"Whatever you want," he agrees.

"Yay! Let's go!" she says, then leads the way down the hall.

"I'm gonna jump in the shower," I tell Jesse before he follows her. "Just real quick."

"Take your time," he says. "I got her."

I nod, grateful he said that. "Okay."

I linger in the bathroom before turning on the water, eyes on my reflection as I listen to the rise and fall of Jesse and Chelsea's voices in her bedroom. I can still remember being in this position after the first time he put his hands on me; making eye contact with myself and wondering how I could let things get as bad as they did. That time, he had gripped my wrist so tightly that there was a bruise in the shape of a hand, and it was a bitch to cover up every morning. I look at my wrist now and can still remember exactly how it looked during each stage of healing. First black and purple, then blue, then green and yellow as it faded.

"Jesse," Chelsea asks quietly, but it's impossible not to hear everything in our tiny apartment. "Is Mommy okay?"

The bed squeaks as I assume Jesse gets comfortable on it. I can picture them sitting side-by-side, resting against the headboard with picture books open on their laps. "Yeah," he says comfortingly. "She's gonna be fine. She just needs a little time. In the morning, she'll be good as new."

"Okay," she says, pausing. "Is she sad because my dad came to Friendsgiving?"

"Yeah," Jesse says.

"He always came before, though," Chelsea says. "But it was bad this time?"

Jesse takes a deep inhale. "Like she said…" he begins. "Your dad has done things that scare her. And she wants the best for the both of you. She loves you so much, Chels."

"I know."

"Good. I'm glad you know."

"But my daddy got me a Barbie, though," she says, still confused. "If he's mean, why would he do a nice thing?"

"I think it's more complicated than that," he says. "It was nice of him to bring you that, you're right. But he didn't ask if he could come. It was a bad surprise."

"Oh."

"If he would've asked, it might've turned out better."

"Mommy would say no."

"Hmm?"

"Mommy would tell him that he couldn't come," she says logically. "Because he's scary to her. And I wish he didn't come because he made Mommy cry. I don't like that."

"Yeah, me neither."

"Is she better now?"

"I think she's getting there."

With that, I turn the shower on and wait a few minutes as it heats up. Then, I step under the water and cover my face with my hands, taking deep breaths as I allow the day to wash off my skin and rinse down the drain. It's refreshing to think of it like that; when I step out, I'll be fresh from the scene earlier. I'll be removed from it.

It does feel somewhat like that when I come out, towel wrapped around my body as I make my way from the bathroom into my bedroom. On the way, I see Jesse lingering in the entryway, and his eyes catch on me as I pass. "She's out," he says. "She was super tired."

"Oh," I say. "Good."

"So…" he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and nodding towards the door. "I'll get out of your hair. You probably want some time alone."

"No," I say quickly, surprising myself. "I, um… no, actually." I clear my throat. "If you don't have anything else to do, um… would you mind staying?"

"Of course not," he says, taking his shoes back off. "Yeah, no. I'd love to."

"Okay," I say. "I'm just gonna get changed then."

I smile to myself as I put my pajamas on and brush out my wet hair. In some ways, Jesse acts the same as he did when we were in college. Unassuming, conscientious and somewhat like a puppy. We're such opposites of each other, but I remember exactly how it felt to fall in love with him. It was so easy.

I open my bedroom door back up when I'm dressed and wave him in. He chuckles softly and says, "Do you still use the same shampoo as before?"

I look at him with amused fascination. "How do you know that?" I ask.

"I can smell it," he says, then blinks hard before opening his eyes wide. "It's really taking me back."

"Is it?"

He nods. "Mm-hmm. The guys would always give me shit when I'd come home after being at your place for a while, saying I smelled all girly."

"Such assholes," I laugh, shaking my head.

"They were jealous," he says. "None of them could stay with a girl for longer than a month. Me and you held the record."

"We were together for a while, yeah," I say. "It was nice."

"Yeah," he says, making eye contact. "It was."

We're quiet for a moment before I break the silence with a small laugh. "You always hogged the bed, though," I say.

"What?"

I laugh again. "When you'd stay over all those nights. I slept like shit because you never gave me any space."

"It was a twin bed!" he says, smiling.

"Not the point," I say. "You'd have a ton of room over on your side, yet you'd have your whole body wrapped around mine. I'm surprised I didn't suffocate."

"Oh, shut up," he says. "You loved it." I shrug playfully in response. "I just liked being close to you. You can't fault me for that."

"No, I guess I can't," I say, softer now. I look over again and find him chewing on his lip, wondering what to say or how to say it. I know, because I'm in the same boat. And for once, I'm going to do something about it. "I get it, though," I say.

"Get what?"

"Wanting to be close," I say, testing the waters. "Because I wanna be close to you now." As soon as I say it, what I thought I was so brazen for, my face turns red and my throat tightens. My chest gets heavy and I wonder why I allowed those words to come out. "Jesus, I'm sorry," I say. "I sound like an ass. We don't… please, just forget I said that."

"You don't have to apologize," he says." I feel the same way. I miss you, Bec."

We make prolonged eye contact and my eyebrows lift as I feel how sincere his words are. He really means what he's saying; his whole heart is in it. "I miss you, too," I say, and this time I don't regret it.

"I can stay tonight, if..." he says. "If that's something you'd want… I don't know. I don't have to."

"I want you to," I say, then look to the bed. "And the bed's a little bigger now." He laughs, tension broken, and I continue with, "You don't feel weird about it, do you?"

"No, not at all," he says. "Why? Do you?"

I shake my head. "No," I say. "We just have to make sure you're up and out before Chels gets up. That would just be too confusing for her."

"Right, yeah. Of course."

I settle into bed on the side that's familiar and he gets under the covers on the other, dressed in boxers and a t-shirt. It's a little awkward at first, finding him under the blankets, but once I allow my brain to turn off and my body to take over, it comes as naturally as it always did. He wraps his arms around me and I rest my head in the crook of his shoulder, listening to his heartbeat as it lulls me to sleep. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I fall asleep feeling safe.

…

In the morning, Jesse gets up before the sun and although it's obvious he's trying not to wake me, he does anyway. He slowly unravels his body from mine and stands up, and I roll onto my back as he does. "Oh," he whispers through the darkness. "You're up."

"Mmm," I murmur, eyes half-lidded as I watch him pull on his jeans. His belt clinks softly, such a domestic and familiar sound. I like it.

"You should go back to sleep," he says once his pants are buttoned and zipped. "It's still early."

"I will," I say, blinking slow. "Thanks for staying."

"Of course," he says, then turns to face me after putting his wallet in his pocket. "Are you gonna be okay today?"

"Yeah," I say. "I'm gonna try to talk to Chels about things."

"Good," he says. "I'll text after work to check in on you guys."

"You should come over for dinner," I say, eyes still on him. "We can order something."

"Yeah?"

I nod, eyes closing for a long moment before they come open again. "Yeah."

"Sounds good," he says. "I'll do that." Then, he does something that neither of us expect. He braces one hand on the mattress and uses the other to brush hair out of my face, then kisses me. It's soft and sweet, just slow enough, and if anything - routine. After he pulls away, I'm taken aback yet completely calm. I have no idea what to think. "Oh," he says, realizing what he did. "I didn't… it just…"

I don't let him finish. Instead, I cup both sides of his face to bring him back, pressing my lips to his for a second time. This time, we let the kiss linger and melt into each other, and when we pull away, I tuck my face into his neck and give him a big hug. "Have a good day at work," I mutter, voice still raspy. "I'll see you tonight."

"Yeah," he says, eyes shining as he stands up straight. "Yes, you will."

…

Later that day, Chelsea sits on my lap facing me, listening as I try to give her an explanation in terms she can understand. "I'm not sorry that I met your daddy because being with him gave me you," I say, tucking hair behind her ears. "And you are the best thing that ever happened to me. In my whole life." She smiles. "But me and your dad aren't going to be together anymore, and being around him doesn't make me happy. It makes me sad, mad, and scared."

She nods gravely, eyes wide. "Because he hitted you before."

My heart splinters hearing her say those words, but I have to keep going. "Yes," I say. "And it's never, ever okay to hit somebody. Or hurt them in any way, no matter what. Violence isn't the answer to any question. It's always wrong."

"You can't hurt somebody that you love," she says.

"You shouldn't hurt anyone," I say with emphasis. "Hitting is never okay. Or physically hurting someone at all. Daddy was very wrong and I gave him a lot of time to change. Too much time, really. I didn't want him to hurt you, ever. That's why we had to leave."

"Is he going to come and get you?" she asks.

I shake my head. "No. He could get in a lot of trouble if he comes around us again." That's not exactly true yet, but I plan on getting a restraining order as soon as I can. It'll make both of us feel better.

"Okay."

I take a deep breath. "Someday, if you wanna see your daddy and I know that he's not drinking alcohol anymore and he's in a better state of mind, that might be able to happen. But we'll just have to talk about it later, okay? Right now, I don't think it's a good idea for you to spend time with him."

"Okay."

"I'm sorry, Chels," I say. "That you had to see all of this. I know it's hard. I saw my parents go through a lot of hard times, and it made me really sad inside when I was a kid. So, I want you to know that you can always talk to me. About anything."

"Okay," she says, then rubs the arm that's covered in bruises. It takes her a long time to speak, but she eventually does. "It's not okay to hurt anybody ever?" she asks, voice having grown much quieter.

"Never," I say solidly.

Then, she starts to cry. Big, fat tears roll down her face as her mouth turns down, then she collapses against my chest limply, still sobbing. "This boy Kaleb hurts me at school," she cries. "He pinches me all the time and sometimes twists my arm back. He pulls my hair and pushes me down and doesn't let me talk to my friends." She can barely catch her breath she's so upset, and I'm upset, too - albeit in a much different way.

"His name is Kaleb, you said?"

She nods and pushes her face closer to my neck, wrapping her arms around me tightly. I rub her back and hug her close, then listen to her say, "I don't want him to keep being mean to me. I don't want to see him ever again."

"I'm gonna fix it," I promise her. "I won't let him hurt you anymore."

…

I send Chelsea to school the next day and go to the main office for my appointment with the principal. I'm intimidated as I sit in the plastic chairs in front of the secretary's desk, like I'm a child in trouble. Chairs a lot like these were a place I often found myself while I was in elementary school, and being back isn't the greatest feeling.

When the principal, Mr. Lyons, welcomes me into his office, I feel even smaller. He shakes my hand and I smile cordially and sit up straight, knowing instantly that I should've worn something more businesslike. All I have on are jeans and a long-sleeved shirt; it isn't good enough. "Mrs. Mitchell, it's good to meet you," he says.

"Ms.," I correct.

"Excuse me," he says. "Ms. What brought you in today? I heard there might be a complaint about bullying in your daughter's classroom?"

"Yes, I-"

"I want to assure you that as a school system, we make sure our students are happy and healthy," he says. "We want school to be a safe place for them. So, the fact that there's talk of bullying is just… outlandish to me."

"Well, there's not just talk," I say, skin prickling. "It's happening."

He folds his hands on top of the desk and leans forward, eyebrows creasing. "If you could explain," he says.

I clear my throat and try to seem as confident as I wish I was. "There's a boy in my daughter, Chelsea's, class. His name is Kaleb; I don't know a last name. But I'm sure he wouldn't be hard to locate. In pre-k, Chelsea loved school. She would look forward to going every day and be just as happy when I picked her up, and that's not the case anymore. She dreads coming to school and she's sullen and depressed at the end of the day. And before Thanksgiving break, she had bruises on her arms that I eventually figured out came from Kaleb pinching her."

"You figured it out, or did Chelsea actually tell you?"

"She told me," I retort quickly, frowning. "She told me that he pinches her, pushes her, twists her arm, excludes her from friends. And that's just not right. I want my daughter to be happy at school, and that's not the case currently. She has it rough enough, being that her father is no longer in the picture."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah, well…" I trail off without much to say on the matter. "The point is that I want her to be happy and she's not. I want the bully taken out of her class."

The principal looks at me for a long moment before speaking again. "How old did you say your daughter was?" he asks. "What grade?"

"She's five," I say. "Kindergarten."

He nods slowly. "I see," he says. "Well, the good news is that occurrences like this are common. Your daughter is getting acclimated to a brand new way of attending school, Mrs. Mitchell. It's a lot to handle for kiddos who are used to half a day. The reason she's so tired at pickup is because she's mentally drained. It'll take a few more months for her to get used to the schedule, but it'll happen. As for the bullying you spoke of, I'm not sure that's the correct term to use. It sounds like playground roughhousing to me." He pauses. "Does Chelsea have any siblings?"

I cross my arms and say, "No."

He nods like he's realized something insightful. "All of this is just her way of getting used to dynamics with other children. It can be a lot to get used to for both mom and child, I understand. I can understand why you would be-"

"But you don't understand," I say, and my voice trembles despite myself. "My daughter is getting hurt here at school. Where she's supposed to be safest."

"I can assure you, she's safe," he says. "It's a transitional period. There are bound to be bumps in the road."

"This isn't a bump," I say, growing firmer.

He sighs and looks me right in the eyes. "You mentioned her father being out of the picture as of late. Could it be possible that this is her way of acting out, her way of asking for attention without verbally asking?"

"No!" I explode, standing up from my chair. I try to rein myself in, but I'm nearing the point of no return. "You're not listening. Are you going to take that terror out of her classroom or not?"

"I'm afraid that's not quite how things work here," he says. "There's no picking and choosing, we-"

"Then I'm choosing to take my daughter somewhere else," I say, knowing full well that the only other school within driving distance of our apartment is a private school - one that costs money instead of this free public school.

"Mrs. Mitchell, if you'd sit down, we can discuss-"

"Ms.," I insist, flipping around so my hair flies. "It's Ms. And I won't sit down. I'm taking Chelsea home. She won't be coming back here again."

I storm out of the office and down the hall to where her kindergarten classroom is, then knock on the open door. Chelsea's sitting on the rug with the rest of her class, listening to the teacher who's positioned at the front of the room. "Mommy!" she says quietly, but excitedly.

"Come on, babe," I say, ushering her out. I make eye contact with the teacher. "I'm taking her. She's not coming back." I look to my daughter then and order, "Grab your stuff."

In the car, Chelsea knows better than to ask questions. I have a thousand thoughts running through my mind and no solutions to any of the problems they pose. I don't have the money for private school tuition, but there's no way I'm sending her back here. Absolutely no way. I'm stuck with no viable options and no idea what to do.

When Jesse comes over later, Chelsea is planted in front of a movie that I'm sure he'll join her for later. But first, he gives me a hug and I squeeze his waist tight, stealing one small kiss before my daughter can notice. "Hey," he says, framing my face with one hand. "What's wrong? You were so vague over text."

I glance to Chelsea, who's completely caught up in the screen. "I pulled her out of school today," I tell him. "For good."

"What?"

I nod firmly. "They weren't gonna do anything about the kid who's hurting her, so I did something." I sigh. "Something big."

"Now what?" he asks.

I sigh. "The only other school in the district is private. It costs about $6,000 per year, which I don't have. But I'm gonna have to figure out some way to get it."

"Shit," he says.

"Yeah, I know."

Then, Chelsea notices Jesse's presence. "Jesse!" she says, waving him over with one hand. "Come watch Fairytopia with me."

"Come on," Jesse says, looking at me. "Let's watch Fairytopia."

"I don't know," I say, sighing.

"No choice in the matter," he says brightly, taking my hand. "I bet you could stand to get your mind off things and watch Barbies fly around for an hour."

I give in because he's right and I know it. I don't necessarily want to watch a movie that I've seen at least twenty times, but it's enough to just be with the two of them sitting on the living room floor, smiling at Chelsea when she laughs at the same scenes she always laughs at. I have to remind myself that even if the world is falling apart around us, I still have both of them. No matter what changes, I know they'll stay the same.

…

After the weekend passes and it's time for me and Chelsea to go clean Jesse's office, he meets us at the front door. "Hey," I say, leaning into the hug he gives me, then watching as he lifts Chelsea onto his hip. "What's up? I thought you were gonna see us at the apartment."

"Well, that was the plan," he says. "Until I put the final piece in place for your surprise."

"My surprise?" I echo, furrowing my eyebrows. "Jess, I hate surprises. You know that."

"You won't hate this one," he says. "Take my word for it. Follow me."

I watch the back of he and Chelsea's heads as he walks down a long hallway, then we come to a stop in front of the open door to a recording booth. "I cleaned the sound booths last time, and my boss said they only need to be done once in a while," I tell him.

"That's not why we're here," he tells me. "I talked to my boss. Maybe showed him some of your old stuff. Old vocals, old beats, and…" He shrugs and smiles a mile-wide grin. "He wants to give you a shot."

"What?" I say.

"He wants to hear what you can do," Jesse says. "I know you don't have anything ready, but I wanted to surprise you. It doesn't have to happen tonight. But… if he likes what you have to offer - which he will - he wants to sign you."

"Is Mommy gonna be a famous singer?" Chelsea asks, looking excitedly between the two of us. "Just like she used to be when you guys loved each other in college?"

I can't help the smirk that twists its way onto my face. I give Chelsea a big kiss on the cheek, then make strong, lasting eye contact with Jesse. This means more to me than he could ever know. Or maybe he does know. That makes it even better.

"I think a lot of things might go back to the way they were in college," I say, then take either of their hands to give them a hearty squeeze. "And that's a very, very good thing."