Chapter 3: The Weight of Doubt

Monday, Kindergarten B

I pushed through the classroom door, a rainbow of gifts tucked into my bag—stuffed animals, a box of glitter crayons, a hand-painted “Big Brother” badge for Liam. _Today’s the day._ I’d tell the kids I’d be gone for a year. My chest felt like a vise.

“Mr. Nikolai!” Ava sprinted over, hugging my leg. “Presents!”

“Hey, gang!” I knelt, forcing a smile. “I brought surprises. But… I need to tell you something hard.”

I explained it gently: “I’ll be away for a while. I’ll miss you, but I’ll call, okay?”

The room erupted.

Liam wailed, “NOOO! You’re my BEST!” Mateo threw his block, shattering a paper castle. Sophie sobbed into her hands. The noise was a tidal wave. It took an hour to calm them—hugs, tissues, whispered promises. _This is what I’d leave behind?_

*Thoughts spiraled:*

_Is it worth it? Nicholas never cared. Why sacrifice _my_ life?_

_These kids need me._

_What if Rafael’s family traps me?_

*What if I lose _myself?_

I wiped Mateo’s tears. “I’ll miss you, buddy.”

“You come back?” he whispered.

“I _will._” _But when?_

Thursday, En Route to a Café

Crisp autumn air nipped at my face as I walked to Fifth Street. Sunlight dwindled, casting long shadows. A tiny figure in a *miniature navy suit, polished shoes, and a silk tie* stumbled on the sidewalk—a toddler, maybe two, with wide brown eyes. No parents. No stroller. No phone.

“Hey, little one,” I crouched, heartbeat racing. “Where’s Mommy?”

The boy blinked, silent. No words. No tears. Just confusion.

My gut twisted. _Lost._

I scooped him up, scanning the street. _No one._ Cars whished past. People rushed by, oblivious.

“We’ll wait inside,” I said, adjusting his tie. “Someone’ll come.”

The café’s warmth enveloped us. I ordered a black coffee, grabbed a juice box, and settled into a corner. The boy—*no name, no clues*—clung to my shirt, sucking the straw robotically. Patrons whispered, “Is he yours?” I shook my head.

*An hour passed.* Coffee cooled. The boy fidgeted, tracing my watch with a chubby finger.

“Want to play?” I pulled out a napkin, drew a cat. He giggled.

Suddenly, a man in a crisp black suit burst in, out of breath. *The driver.*

“Sorry, sir! Traffic. I’m here for the boy.”

The child stared at him, unmoving.

“Who _are_ you?” I demanded. “Where’s his father?”

“Mr. Rafael’s driver. The senator’s son. I’ve been searching.”

_Senator? Rafael?_

“Prove it,” I said, hand firm.

The man dialed. A video call flicked on. A deep voice: “This is Arjun Patel. My nephew, Ayaan.”

A bearded man in a hospital scrub appeared. “Ayaan, baby! Sorry, sweetie.”

The boy’s eyes lit. “DA-DA!”