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I shake my head, and she continues. “It wasn’t your degree or how you recently moved from California.”

“You know about both?”

“Lucy mentioned a few things after your first class.”

I laugh. “That woman really does tell everyone everything.”

Emilie smiles a knowing smile. “Back to my earlier question. The first thing I noticed was the way you spoke to every child at their level. You always crouch down before saying hello. Every single time.”

I try to remember doing it. I can't. It simply feels natural.

“I also noticed you never correct a child by taking something out of their hands. You redirect them instead. And whenever a new family walks through those doors looking nervous, they always end up sitting next to you.”

A surprised chuckle escapes me. “I don't think I've ever planned that.”

“That's exactly my point; I've watched you comfort crying babies while their parents packed diaper bags. I've watched you celebrate paintings that barely resembled what the project was supposed to be. I've watched children run over to show you what they've made, even when they weren't part of your table.” Emilie pauses for a beat. “And every single time, you make them feel like they've created something extraordinary.”

My eyes sting unexpectedly. “I just…” I start and shake my head, struggling to find the right words. “I remember what it felt like to think nothing I did was ever enough. I don't want anyone believing that about themselves, so I try my best to be everyone’s personal cheerleader, big or small.”

Emilie's expression softens even further. “I had a feeling there was a story.”

I glance down at my hands. “There definitely is.”

She doesn't ask me to explain. Instead, she waits. I take a slow, calming breath. “I studied early childhood education because I've always loved working with children. Art and music also have been an important part of my life for as long as I can remember. Although I forgot that for a little while.”

“What happened?”

“My ex.” The words come easier now than they once did. “He never understood my passions, so I stopped painting and playing guitar…stopped creating altogether because it seemed easier than explaining why those things mattered to me.”

I look around the colorful office. “Walking into Tiny Hands that first day reminded me of who I used to be.”

“And who are you now?” Emilie asks gently.

“I’m still figuring that out, but I like this version of myself a lot more. She feels like the girl I used to know, before a small-minded person tried to quiet her and make her feel unimportant.”

“It sounds like you’ve already figured some things out.”

My eyes drop to my hands. She’s right. Finding myself was never about becoming someone new. It was about finding my way back to the parts of myself I’d allowed someone else to convince me weren’t worth holding on to. That’s something my time in Brooklyn has taught me.

Emilie leans back in her chair. “I’ve met plenty of people who know how to keep a calendar organized and make sure everything runs on time. Those things can be taught.”

She pauses, her eyes meeting mine.

“But I don’t need someone who knows how to manage schedules. I need someone who understands why families come here. Why a handprint on a piece of paper can mean everything to a parent. You understood that before anyone had to explain it to you.”

A lump forms in my throat. “So…”

She tilts her head. “If you’re still interested, I’d love to offer you the position.”

I can only stare at her in disbelief. Earlier this summer, I drove across the country believing I'd lost myself inside a marriage that was never what I'd hoped it would be. Now the woman I adore is offering me a future built from the very pieces of myself I thought were gone, only to realize I’d been finding them again with every step that brought me here.

I smile through the tears threatening to spill. “I'd love that.”

“I had a feeling you would.” She stands and walks around the desk to pull me into a warm hug. “Welcome to Tiny Hands crew, Peyton.”

Hugging her back, emotion swells in me. “Thank you.”

“No,” she says softly as we pull apart. “Thank you for walking back through that door.”