“There must be some kind of misunderstanding, Sarah,” the teacher said, her voice unusually quiet as she slid a piece of wide-ruled notebook paper across the desk.

I sat in the tiny, cramped classroom chair at Batavia Elementary, my coat still zipped up.

The room smelled of floor wax and stale crayons. My hands were shaking so badly I had to tuck them under my thighs to keep the teacher from seeing.

The paper she had slid toward me was Emma’s latest English assignment. The prompt at the top of the page read: My Hero.

My 10-year-old daughter had always been a quiet child, especially after her father, David, died in a construction accident three years ago. I worked ten-hour days at the Clermont County water billing department to keep our small home, which meant I relied on family more than I liked to admit.

I expected her to write about her father. Or maybe about me, since I spent every Sunday making her favorite pancakes and trying to make up for the hours I lost at my desk.

Instead, Emma’s messy cursive described a woman named Maeve.

“My hero is Maeve,” the essay began. “She works at the Sunoco on Route 4. She gives me turkey sandwiches when my belly is empty. She hugs me tight when the big trucks make a loud noise outside. She lets me sit in the back room by the warm heater until I see my mom’s blue Buick drive past at 5:30.”

I stared at the page. My brain literally stopped working for a second. I read the words three times, but they wouldn’t settle in my head.

“Sarah,” Mrs. Gable said gently, leaning forward. “Does Emma go to the gas station after school?”

“No,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “She gets off the bus at 3:15 at my mother-in-law’s house.

Brenda’s house is right at the corner of Route 4. She’s supposed to be watching her. I pay her $50 every single Friday.”

Mrs. Gable’s face went completely pale. She didn’t say anything, and honestly, that felt worse than if she had started yelling.

I stood up so fast my knees hit the underside of the small desk, rattling a cup of pencils. I didn’t even say goodbye. I grabbed the essay, ran out to my Buick, and sat in the driver’s seat with the engine idling.

I called Brenda immediately. My chest felt tight, like a band of metal was wrapping around my ribs.

Brenda answered on the fourth ring. I could hear the loud, obnoxious theme music of her afternoon game shows blasting in the background.

“Brenda, where is Emma?” I demanded, gripping the steering wheel.

“She’s fine, Sarah,” Brenda sighed, sounding incredibly annoyed that I had interrupted her program. “She’s sitting right here on the carpet eating her crackers. Honestly, you call me every single afternoon. You need to get your nerves checked.”

“Put her on the phone,” I said. My voice was dangerously flat.