I stood outside the classroom door long enough to hear Miss Thompson say, very softly, “You do not have to keep covering for your mother, Emma.”
My stomach dropped.
Emma was sitting there twisting her backpack straps around her hands. She looked exhausted. Not scared of the teacher. Scared of me.
Then Miss Thompson slid a notebook across the desk and said, “Can you show me where you hide when she sleeps all day?”
I pushed the door open so hard it slammed the wall.
Emma jumped. Miss Thompson stood up immediately. I started yelling before either of them could speak. Asked why she was questioning my daughter alone. Asked why she was filling my child’s head with lies.
And then Emma started crying.
Not normal crying either. Full-body shaking.
She kept saying, “I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m sorry.”
Miss Thompson didn’t even argue with me. She just quietly asked Emma to wait in the hallway for a minute. Then she closed the classroom door and looked me dead in the face.
“Your daughter falls asleep in class almost every day,” she said. “She hoards cafeteria food in her desk. Last week she told another student she stays awake at night to make sure you’re breathing.”
I felt sick instantly because I already knew where this was going.
After my husband died two years ago, things got bad for me for a while. Pills first. Then drinking. I thought I hid it better than I did.
“She said sometimes you forget to pick her up,” Miss Thompson continued. “She also said she learned how to unlock your phone in case you stop waking up.”
I couldn’t even speak.
Then she opened Emma’s notebook.
Every page was full of lists in my daughter’s handwriting.
Mom’s meds.
Mom’s wine bottles.
What to tell 911.
Which neighbor has a spare key.
At the very bottom of the last page, Emma had written:
“If something happens to Mom, call Miss Thompson first.”