One More Hug

The night before kindergarten, Emma packed her blue backpack. Her lunchbox went in, came out, and went in again.

“What if I can’t open it?”

Dad held the lunchbox steady. “Try the little tab.”

Click. Emma opened it herself.

“What if I can’t tomorrow?”

“Ask your teacher. You can practice again at breakfast, too.”

Under the table, her little brother Noah parked a toy truck between Dad’s feet.

“I’m going to school, too.”

“You’re three,” Emma said. “You have to wait.”

“I’ll be five in the morning.”

Emma laughed. She wanted her own cubby and the big box of school blocks. But when Dad asked what else she needed, she looked into the space beside her lunchbox.

“Can Mom fit?”

Mom didn’t fit, but she was coming along for the walk.

At breakfast, Emma opened her lunchbox twice. By the front door, Noah had put on both shoes, on the wrong feet.

“Ready!” he said.

Mom knelt beside him. “You’re staying with Dad today. We’ll all pick Emma up after school.”

“But she plays with me.”

Emma stopped zipping her backpack.

“We can build when I get home.”

“With the big blocks?”

“Save me the long one.”

Dad pulled Emma into a hug. His beard scratched her cheek. She giggled and stayed there another second.

Mom held out her hand. Noah waved from the doorway as they left. At the corner, Emma turned to wave again.

The school door was taller than any door at home. Emma squeezed Mom’s hand.

“Can you stay?”

“I’ll walk you to your classroom,” Mom said.

At the classroom door, Emma stopped. “One more hug?”

Mom knelt beside her. “Of course. Come here.”

Emma pressed her cheek into Mom’s shoulder. Over Mom’s arm, she could see tubs of crayons and a rug covered in colored squares.

“I’ll be here after school,” Mom said.

When Emma let go, her bottom lip trembled.

Her teacher came to the doorway. “Want to see where your backpack goes?”

Emma nodded. She walked inside, then turned to wave until Mom rounded the corner.

Emma kept watching the doorway. The room smelled of crayons. Chairs scraped, and somebody laughed much louder than Noah.

Her teacher pointed out the blocks. Emma carried two over to the rug and set them apart, the way she and Noah started a bridge at home. She balanced a longer block across the top.

It tipped. Clack.

Noah would have made a crashing noise. Emma almost did, too. Instead, she put the block back in the basket.

A girl nearby watched her. Emma wanted to ask her to play, but she rubbed her thumb along the rug instead.

“Was that a bridge?” the girl asked.

“It was supposed to be,” Emma said.

The girl picked up the long block. “I think it needs another one underneath.”

Emma made room beside her.

“Will you hold this end?”

Together, they set the block across two sturdy piles. This time it stayed. The girl pushed a wooden bus underneath, but it got stuck halfway.

“Too tall,” Emma said.

“The passengers will have to duck.”

They both ducked. Emma laughed so hard she knocked one pile sideways.

“Again?” the girl asked.

“Let’s make it taller.”

By lunchtime, they had built a bridge, a tunnel, and a garage. Emma had something she couldn’t wait to tell Noah.

At pickup, Emma’s little brother Noah held out a wooden block. “I saved you the long one!”

Emma grinned. “I made a friend. We built a bridge for a bus.”

“Can we make one?” Noah asked.

“When we get home.”

Dad crouched beside them. “We’ve got a whole basket of blocks ready.”

Emma looked up at Mom. “Will you walk me in tomorrow?”

“Yep.” Mom brushed Emma’s hair out of her eyes.

“I missed you,” Noah said.

“I missed you, too.” Emma bent down and opened her arms. He hurried into them, still holding the block.

“One more hug,” he said.

Noah’s hair tickled Emma’s chin as she hugged him closer.