Molly Gunn was not supposed to be good at this.

At least, that’s what she kept saying as she stood in the daycare doorway, staring at a room full of toddlers armed with finger paint and unlimited energy.

“They’re… very small,” she whispers. “And very loud. And none of them are impressed by designer shoes.”

You grin. “You’ll survive.”

The first hour is chaos. Molly kneels to a child’s level, gets glitter in her hair, and somehow becomes the center of attention without even trying. She sings ridiculous songs, turns cleanup into a game, and listens—really listens—when a child talks about something important, like a broken crayon.

By lunchtime, the kids adore her.

One little girl tugs on Molly’s sleeve. “Miss Molly, can you sit with me?”

Molly freezes, then smiles softly. “Of course, sweetheart.”

Later, during nap time, Molly sits beside you, quieter than usual.

“I didn’t know I could do this,” she admits. “They don’t care about who I was. They just care that I’m here.”

You nod. “You’re really good with them.”

She laughs in disbelief. “I think… I like being needed for something real.”