Chapter 10 Routine, Day One

Chapter 10 Routine, Day One

Tessa arrived three minutes early.

Not because she cared what Derek Saunders thought about punctuality, but because she had learned the hard way that being early was one of the few kinds of control life allowed. When everything else spiraled, she could at least show up.

The gate opened after she pressed the button and gave her name. The security voice was polite, mechanical, and familiar already. She walked up the driveway with her bag on her shoulder and her spine straight, letting the size of the house hit her again without letting it slow her.

The air felt different today.

Colder, cleaner, sharper around the edges.

Not because the house had changed, but because the tone had.

Last night’s rules still hung in the walls, like invisible tape marking boundaries.

The front door opened before she could knock.

Caroline was not there.

Michael was not there.

It was Derek.

He stood in the doorway in a simple T-shirt and dark joggers, hair still damp like he had showered recently, expression unreadable. He did not smile. He did not look amused. He looked like someone who had decided he would not give her anything.

Not warmth. Not hostility. Not even a comment.

Just distance.

“Tessa,” he said.

It was not a greeting. It was a label.

“Derek,” she replied, equally flat.

He stepped aside, letting her in without another word.

The door closed behind her.

The quiet inside the house felt controlled. Emma’s voice drifted faintly from upstairs, a soft hum that sounded like she was talking to herself or her toys. Tessa glanced toward the staircase automatically.

Derek did not follow her gaze.

He moved toward the living room, not inviting her, not directing her, just retreating like he was proving he could exist in the same space without acknowledging her presence.

Tessa set her bag down carefully and took off her jacket. She waited for the comment that usually came. The correction. The hovering. The passive-aggressive reminder.

Nothing.

Her nerves did not settle.

They sharpened.

When Derek was loud, she could predict him. When he was quiet, he was harder to read, and that made her more alert, not less.

She could feel the misinterpretation building on both sides.

Derek assumed her quiet meant she was intimidated.

Tessa assumed his quiet meant he was waiting for her to slip.

Emma came down the stairs a few minutes later, clutching her small backpack like it was armor. She paused at the bottom step and scanned the entryway the way she always did, careful, measuring.

Her eyes landed on Tessa.

Emma’s shoulders loosened just slightly.

Tessa crouched immediately, lowering herself to Emma’s level. “Hi,” she said softly. “Ready for school?”

Emma nodded once, then glanced toward Derek.

Derek stayed near the living room doorway, arms crossed, expression distant.

He did not step forward.

Tessa kept her voice steady. “We will do the morning routine, then I will pick you up after school. Just like we said.”

Emma studied her for a moment, as if confirming the words were real.

Then she nodded again.

The morning passed in small, ordinary motions that felt strangely fragile. Breakfast. Teeth brushed. Shoes found. A jacket zipped. Tessa watched Emma carefully, not hovering, but present enough to catch the quiet signs of worry.

When it was time to go, Derek grabbed his keys without comment and walked them to the car.

His silence remained intact.

It was its own kind of statement.

The drive to school was short, but the atmosphere made it feel longer. Derek drove. Emma sat in the back, small hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the window. Tessa sat in the passenger seat, posture straight, refusing to fidget.

No one spoke until they reached the drop-off line.

Cars crawled forward. Parents waved. Kids spilled onto the sidewalk in bursts of laughter and noise.

Emma’s breathing changed.

Tessa noticed immediately. A small hitch, barely there.

She turned slightly in her seat and looked back at Emma. “Hey,” she said softly. “You do not have to rush. We will go at your pace.”

Emma nodded, but she did not unbuckle.

Derek’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.

Tessa saw it without looking directly at him.

The pickup line was a performance even at drop-off. People glanced into cars the way they always did, checking faces, checking brands, checking who belonged with who.

A couple of parents looked at Derek’s car a little longer than usual.

Some recognized it.

Some recognized him.

Tessa could feel it like pressure against her skin, even though she was not the one in the headlines.

When the car in front moved, Derek pulled forward, smooth and controlled.

A teacher stood near the curb, scanning names on a clipboard.

Emma stayed still, like her body was bracing for something it could not name.

Tessa unbuckled, turned fully toward the backseat, and reached her hand back, palm open. “Come on,” she said. “We will do it together.”

Emma stared at her hand.

Then she placed her small fingers in Tessa’s, clinging for one second longer than necessary before letting go to unbuckle.

Tessa stepped out first and held the door open. She did not rush Emma. She did not speak loudly. She simply stood there, steady, a calm anchor in a noisy place.

Emma climbed out slowly.

A couple of kids nearby looked.

A couple of parents looked.

One girl whispered something to her friend and glanced at Derek’s car again.

Tessa wanted to snap at the world for staring.

She did not.

She just reached for Emma’s hand again and held it like it was normal.

The teacher’s eyes flicked to Emma and softened in a way that made Tessa’s stomach tighten. “Emma,” the teacher said gently. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

Emma nodded.

The teacher glanced at Tessa. “And you are…?”

“Tessa,” she replied simply. “I am helping with pickup and drop-off.”

The teacher’s smile stayed polite. Her eyes lingered a fraction too long, like she wanted to ask something else, like she was trying to fit Tessa into a category.

“So,” the teacher said carefully, voice too gentle, “how is everyone doing at home?”

It was an awkward question wrapped in kindness, a tragedy-shaped question that did not say plane crash, did not say orphaned, did not say poor thing, but carried all of it anyway.

Tessa’s jaw tightened.

Emma’s grip on her hand tightened too.

“We are taking it one day at a time,” Tessa said smoothly, voice calm and firm.

The teacher nodded quickly, as if grateful for an answer that did not require more. “Of course. Emma, go on in.”

Emma hesitated, then stepped toward the door.

Tessa crouched again, meeting her eyes. “I will be here after school,” she said quietly. “Same spot. Same time.”

Emma stared at her for a beat.

Then she nodded once, and this time she moved inside without looking back.

Tessa stood slowly.

Derek was watching from the driver’s seat, jaw tight, eyes fixed forward like he refused to show anything in public.

Tessa closed the car door and slid back into the passenger seat.

Neither of them spoke on the drive back.

That silence followed them through the afternoon until it was time for pickup.

School pickup was worse.

The line was longer, the crowd louder, and the kids were restless. Emma appeared at the front doors with her backpack clutched tight, scanning faces.

When she saw Tessa, she paused.

Then she moved.

Not fast.

But deliberate.

Tessa met her at her level again, crouching slightly as Emma approached. “Hi,” she said softly. “How was your day?”

Emma shrugged.

Tessa did not push. “Okay,” she said. “We will do snack at home, and then homework. One thing at a time.”

Emma nodded, eyes flicking toward Derek’s car.

Derek waited at the curb, engine running, watching through the windshield.

A couple of parents looked again.

A couple of kids whispered again.

Tessa ignored them all. She guided Emma to the car, buckled her in, and slid into the passenger seat.

Derek pulled away smoothly, expression set.

If he felt the eyes, he did not show it.

At home, homework turned into chaos within ten minutes.

Emma avoided it like it was poison.

First she claimed she was hungry again, even though she had eaten her snack. Then she wandered away from the table. Then she pouted, arms folded, refusing to open her folder. When Tessa asked her a simple question about her worksheet, Emma shrugged and stared at the wall like the paper had insulted her personally.

Tessa tried one approach.

“Let us start with the easy one,” she said, pointing to the first question. “Just one.”

Emma looked at it, then shoved the paper slightly away.

Tessa did not react. She adjusted.

“All right,” she said. “Do you want to be the teacher or the student?”

Emma blinked. “Teacher.”

“Perfect,” Tessa said. “Then you get to tell me what to do.”

Emma’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Really?”

“Yes,” Tessa replied. “Boss me around.”

Emma sat up straighter, the shift immediate. She pointed at the worksheet with more interest. “You do it.”

Tessa picked up her pencil. “Okay. What do I write?”

Emma hesitated, then leaned forward, reading slowly. “Two plus three.”

Tessa pretended to struggle. “Is that five or six? I forget.”

Emma’s face flickered, almost offended. “It is five.”

“Oh,” Tessa said, writing it down like she had been enlightened. “You are very smart.”

Emma’s mouth twitched.

The game worked.

Small steps. Tiny wins. A structure that let Emma feel control before she faced the harder part.

Derek hovered in the background, pretending he was not watching.

He stood near the hallway, arms crossed, gaze flicking to the table every few seconds. At first, his expression tightened, like he thought Tessa was being too soft, too accommodating.

Then he watched Emma lean closer, watched her pencil grip steady, watched her answer out loud without being forced.

He realized Tessa was not being soft.

She was being strategic.

Tessa clocked him watching and refused to perform. She did not look up. Did not explain. Did not make a show of her methods.

She did the work, not the show.

By the time homework was done, Emma looked exhausted but proud. She held up the worksheet like proof of survival.

Tessa smiled. “You did that,” she said. “That is yours.”

Emma’s shoulders lifted with a small pride she did not say out loud.

Dinner became negotiation, not feeding.

Emma wanted chicken nuggets.

Tessa opened the fridge and saw prepared food, neatly labeled containers. “We have pasta,” she said. “Or we have chicken and vegetables. Which do you want?”

Emma’s face tightened. “Nuggets.”

“We do not have nuggets,” Tessa replied calmly. “You can pick between these two.”

Emma crossed her arms. “Uncle Derek lets me.”

The words were a test.

Tessa felt the moment sharpen immediately. She did not look at Derek. She kept her gaze on Emma.

Derek remained in the background, leaning against the kitchen doorway, pretending he was not listening.

Tessa waited.

If Derek undercut her, this would become a battle she could not win, and Emma would learn exactly how to split them.

Derek said nothing.

The silence was its own kind of cooperation.

Tessa nodded once. “Uncle Derek can decide what he does,” she said calmly. “Right now, I am deciding what you eat for dinner. Pasta or chicken?”

Emma’s eyes narrowed.

She tried again, a second angle. “Grandma said I could.”

“Grandma is not here,” Tessa replied, voice still steady. “Choices are still pasta or chicken.”

Emma’s mouth tightened.

Tessa did not lecture. She did not argue. She simply held the line and gave Emma control inside it.

Emma stared at the options like they were unfair.

Then, finally, she huffed. “Pasta.”

“Okay,” Tessa said immediately, as if the choice was completely normal. “Good pick.”

She heated the pasta, served a small portion, and sat with Emma at the counter while she ate. Derek stayed near the edge of the kitchen, quiet, watching without comment.

Emma ate slowly, testing the boundaries one more time by leaving her vegetables untouched.

Tessa did not fight her over it. She just said, “Take three bites,” and counted with her. Emma made a face but did it.

After dinner, Emma looked lighter.

Not perfectly happy.

Not healed.

But eased.

Tessa guided her into the living room, where the evening felt softer. She let Emma choose a book, then listened while Emma told her a story that did not make sense, something about a unicorn that lived in a mailbox and hated bedtime.

Tessa did not correct her.

She leaned into the ridiculousness. “A mailbox unicorn,” she said, eyes widening. “That is very serious.”

Emma nodded solemnly. “Very serious.”

Tessa lowered her voice dramatically. “Does it bite the mailman?”

Emma gasped, then burst into laughter.

Not a polite giggle.

A real laugh, sudden and bright, like it surprised even Emma to hear it.

The sound rang through the quiet house.

Derek heard it from the doorway.

He paused.

For a second he did not move. He just stood there, listening like the laugh was something fragile and rare.

Tessa felt her chest loosen, just a fraction.

Derek felt something tighten, just a fraction, because he realized what that laugh cost the child to give.

Emma laughed again, breathless, cheeks pink.

Tessa smiled, warmth real and quiet.

Derek stayed in the doorway, silent, watching the scene he had not believed would happen.

The laugh mattered.

And both of them understood it, even if neither of them said a word.