caitlyn's arms ached, but she didn’t let go.

the toddler clung to her like ivy—tight little fists tangled in the collar of caitlyn's coat, cheeks pressed to her neck, soft whimpering breaths fogging up the fine embroidery near her shoulder. she was warm and heavy and very, very upset.

vi stood nearby, trying not to pace, her hand running through her hair in a cycle that caitlyn recognized: fret, soothe, repeat. the small hallway outside the preschool classroom felt much too big for how small their world had suddenly become.

“she doesn’t have to go today,” vi said softly. “we can try again tomorrow.”

caitlyn shook her head, gently rocking their daughter in her arms. “if we keep pushing it back, it’ll only get harder. transitions need consistency.”

their daughter—june—whimpered louder at the word “transition,” as if she somehow understood. maybe she did.

caitlyn felt the familiar flicker in her chest: guilt, quickly chased by logic, then shadowed again by something more slippery—grief, maybe. not because june was autistic. that was a part of her caitlyn adored, a thread woven right into her soul--something she shared with her 4 year old. but the world wasn’t designed for june. not for her stimming, not for her love of specific textures, not for the way she needed the same sequence of events each morning like the gears of a clock that couldn’t be tampered with. and most definitely not for how hard it was to say goodbye.

“she needs you, cait,” vi said gently. “you're her anchor.”

“i know.” caitlyn pressed a kiss to june's soft curls. “but inneed to show her she’s safe even when i'm not right next to her.”

june lifted her head, eyes red and glassy, lips trembling. “mama stay,” she whispered.

caitlyn's heart cracked.

“i want to,” she whispered back, brushing a spiral curl from june's forehead. “i always want to. but remember the picture schedule? we come back after school. always.”

june didn’t respond, just buried her face in caitlyn's scarf again and began a slow, rhythmic tapping on caitlyn's shoulder—her stim of the moment. caitlyn matched it, one finger to june's back, tapping in time. like a secret code only the two of them knew.

vi crouched down beside them. “hey, junebug. wanna take lion with you?” she held out the worn plush lion that had survived soup spills, tantrums, and at least three wash cycles. june peeked out, hesitating.

“lion stays,” she said firmly, curling tighter into caitlyn. “lion and mama stay.”

caitlyn exchanged a glance with vi, who looked helpless. this wasn’t just nerves. this was something deeper. attachment, yes—but also overload. the hallway buzzed with fluorescent lighting. the other kids’ voices down the corridor sounded like they were shouting, even though they weren’t. caitlyn could hear it, too. she knew. the world was too loud. too bright. too uncertain.

and june wasn’t ready.