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I glance toward Ollie again as Axel toddles over holding a bright yellow crayon. Without hesitation, Ollie crouches until they're eye level. “You bringing me supplies, buddy?”

Axel smiles a gummy smile before placing the crayon into Ollie's hand like he's passing over something incredibly important.

“Thank you,” Ollie says.

The little boy beams before wobbling away. Watching Ollie here feels strangely similar to watching him in the garage. There's the same patience and gentleness in him. The same complete focus on whoever happens to be standing in front of him.

By the time the class winds down, drying racks overflow with colorful canvases. Children race around showing everyone their creations while parents begin packing bags and wiping little paint-covered hands.

Almost without thinking, I gather the abandoned paintbrushes into a container and stack the empty palettes beside the sink.

“You always beat me to the cleaning,” a familiar voice says behind me.

I turn to find Emilie, the studio owner, smiling as she approaches with an armful of supplies.

“We’d already finished Tilly’s piece, so I thought I might as well help before we leave,” I tell her.

Her smile softens as she sets the supplies on the counter. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you walk out of here without tidying something first.”

There's affection in her voice. Over the past weeks we've talked nearly every Friday. Sometimes about art. Sometimes about children. Once about the best bakery within walking distance. More recently, about her mother, whose health has slowly been declining. She looks more tired today than I've ever seen her before, the shadows beneath her eyes darker than the last time.

“You alright?” I ask quietly, not wanting to bring attention to our conversation.

She offers the kind of smile people wear when they don't want to worry anyone. “Oh, I’m fine and dandy. It’s just one of those weeks.”

Before I can say anything else, someone calls her name from the office.

“I'd better⁠—”

“Go,” I say. “We'll see you next Friday.”

“I hope so.”

There's something about the way she says it that stays with me. A few minutes later, Ollie has put Tilly into the stroller after a mini meltdown while I tucked last week’s project in my tote bag.

We head toward the front door together, slowing as another family steps inside. That's when Emilie’s voice comes from the office.

“...I can't keep doing this. I need to be with my mom more. She shouldn't be sitting alone while I'm here worrying about schedules and supply orders.”

“What about the interviews?” someone asks her, their voice crackling through the phone’s speaker.

“The candidates all look great on paper and we had lovely chats.” A pause. “But none of them feel exactly right. I need someone who understands what this place is really about, not some stranger who saw a job listing and applied.”

I know exactly what she means. Every Friday, I've watched exhausted parents leave smiling a little more than when they arrived. I've watched children discover that making mistakes can be fun instead of something to apologize for. Somewhere along the way, Tiny Hands became a little refuge for me too.

Ollie and I continue outside without saying a word, not wanting to listen to more of the private conversation. He adjusts Tilly’s blanket around her legs, tucking it beneath her feet before looking over at me.

“You’ve mentioned going back to work a few times, now that we’ve started talking about finding a permanent nanny for Tills,” he says.

It’s true. The conversation has come up more than once lately. Tilly is thriving, life is steady again, and neither of us ever expected me to be her nanny forever. But so far, going back to work has been more of an idea than an actual plan; something we’ve talked around without fully deciding what comes next.

Ollie slips his hand into mine. “Maybe this is the universe telling you to apply for the job.”

The thought sends a nervous flutter through my stomach. I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t crossed my mind, but thinking about it in passing is different from actually putting myself forward. The possibility of doing something for myself again is exciting, but there’s a voice in the back of my mind reminding me of all the reasons Emilie might say no.

“I don’t know if she’d even consider me,” I say.

His thumb brushes across my knuckles. “Don’t decide that for her.”