Devon McDonald rubbed her eyes before putting on her sunglasses. She rolled her aching shoulders backwards and yawned. The end of a long work week had finally come. She drove out of the high school parking lot where she worked and headed with controlled speed to the pre-school her daughter attended. A glance at the bulging brief case reminded her that she had drafts of her students’ memoirs to look over. They were sure to be emotional and draining. The memoir they were studying, Black Boy by Richard Wright, was itself a powerful read on racism, something many of her students understood well. God’s Little Lambs pre-school was tucked neatly behind an old brick church in Dorchester. Though Devon wasn’t a church goer, she liked the fact that the workers didn’t just babysit the children; they taught them the basics to get them ready for kindergarten. When Devon walked in and saw the head teacher, Tasha Mitchell, crouched down beside Ali’s chair as Ali was drawing, she remembered that today she would receive Ali’s quarterly report. Just the anticipation of what it was going to say made her nervous. She approached them and smiled. “Hey, baby.” Ali looked up. A wide smile filled her face and her curved brown eyes were bright. She lifted up the picture she drew. It was the inside of the pre-school, showing children playing at various stations. She drew herself sitting in a corner, playing alone. “Hmm.” Devon stroked her hair. Tasha rose. She was a few inches taller than Devon and a few pounds heavier. Her close cropped hair was streaked with gray, but her plump face was wrinkle-free. She picked up a yellow envelope. “Here is her quarterly report. Would you like to talk about it?” “Thank you, no. I have to get home.” “Of course. We need to meet soon anyway to discuss a plan for kindergarten.” “Is she ready?” “She’s making progress. See you tomorrow, pretty girl,” Tasha said and gave Ali’s nose a poke. Ali waved. In the car, Devon opened the envelope and read the contents. The speech therapist’s report was nearly the same as last quarter. She wrote that Ali was displaying signs of autism. She recommended that Ali continue to get speech therapy in kindergarten. Devon wondered what kindergarten was going to be like after the safe and supportive environment of God’s Little Lambs Preschool. She put the papers back into the envelope. Devon drove into Roxbury, anxious to get home. She had to finally talk to her husband Lincoln about Ali, something she had been avoiding for months with the hope that Ali would grow out of her problems. Now she had no choice. She parked in front of a sprawling Victorian mansion that had been split into three apartments. Devon opened the solid, polished wood door to their apartment on the first floor. She put the yellow envelope on the phone table. “Linc, honey, we’re home!” she called out. “Lincoln?” She took Ali’s hand and they went into the kitchen. She sliced and peeled an apple, wrapped it in a napkin and set it in front of Ali. “Enjoy, babe. I wonder where Daddy is,” she said. “Daddy is.” Ali said and began to eat. Lincoln’s office was near the dining room. She knocked. “Lincoln.” She opened the door. Cool darkness met her. She flipped the switch. His desk was clean and the small bookshelf in the corner was empty. Maybe he decided to do his spring cleaning early, she thought, but a small, uneasy knot formed in her stomach. She walked through the dining room into the parlor. The built-in bookcase she used for her own materials cried out for relief with many of her books sitting on the floor. Their bedroom door was shut. She went in. Lincoln’s chest of drawers was as bare as his desk. The closet was wide open and half-empty. In the bathroom all of his toiletries were gone. She went through the drawers and found nothing. When she turned to her dresser she saw an envelope taped to the mirror, her name scribbled on it. She took a deep breath and sucked in her bottom lip as began to read the note inside. Each word felt like a punch in the stomach: Devon, it is time to end this circus we call a marriage. I feel like an outsider in my own home. I need some paperwork from you to file the divorce petition. I’ll bring the forms when I see you in a week or so. We can settle this as painlessly as possible. I’ll be in touch. Lincoln She dropped on her bed. Circus? She thought. Painlessly? He’s making it sound like a business deal! Dissolving their marriage was never an option in her mind. She was hoping for his support in navigating the school system to meet Ali’s needs. Now it was suddenly over? There was no way she could go down quietly. Ali’s appearance in the doorway shook her out of the shock. She threw the note aside and opened her arms. “Come, baby,” she whispered. “Come.” She pressed her against her chest as tears fell from her eyes. Ali began to try to wiggle away, but Devon pulled her closer. Finally, she cried out. She let her go and turned away to wipe her face quickly. “You finished your snack?” “Finished your snack.” “Go to your room and draw Mommy a picture, okay? I’ll be in in a few minutes.” “Picture.” Devon waited until she was gone to rip the note into tiny pieces and throw them in the air. “Damn you, Lincoln,” she said. “Damn you!” She went to her hall phone and dialed her father’s work number. Though she didn’t speak to him often, she considered him a powerful ally.
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