Going through a divorce was the best and worst thing I’ve ever done. It broke me open in ways I never expected—the legal fees, the constant stress of trying to get full custody of Aspen, and the late nights spent triple-checking every word in court filings. And then there was the emotional weight of watching a man I’d once planned forever with become a stranger in the same room.

But once it was over? God, it was like I could finally breathe again.

I didn’t have to walk on eggshells anymore. Didn’t have to worry about whether I folded the towels “his way,” or if leaving a single coffee mug out would spark another icy silence. Life got lighter. Not just for me, but for Aspen too. She was twelve then—sharp-eyed, quiet, absorbing more than I wished she had. Now she’s sixteen and still my entire world. I’ve built a life around her and my job as a kindergarten teacher, and honestly, it’s been enough.

Mostly.

I haven’t dated since the divorce. Not because I didn’t want to, but because… who even would date a thirty-four-year-old divorced mom? Between parent-teacher conferences, lesson planning, and making sure Aspen doesn’t burn out before graduation, it never felt like there was room. And I’m scared too—scared she’ll think I’m trying to replace her dad, even though we both know that relationship had been gone long before I signed the papers.

Still. I want something. Someone. A spark.

Lately, I think I might’ve found one. God help me, it’s with my new teacher assistant. She’s in college—barely older than Aspen—and it’s inappropriate in every imaginable way. But the way she watches me? It’s impossible not to feel it. The subtle, lingering glances when I’m reading to the kids. The way she leans a little closer than necessary when she speaks. And it’s not just me imagining it. At least… I don’t think it is.

This morning, she greeted me with a soft “good morning,” her voice syrup-sweet. I told her she could use the back table for schoolwork—it was a slow start. But then she asked for help, saying, “You’re just so smart. I feel like you could explain it better than my professors.”

I caved. Of course I did.

We worked together until the kids started filing in, and like clockwork, we shifted back into our roles. She helped them with finger-painting, sang along during story time, even tied one of the girl’s shoelaces like she’d done it a hundred times.

The day ended like always—with sticky desks and tiny handprints everywhere. We wiped them down in comfortable silence. Then she stepped up beside me, casually twirling a strand of her hair between her fingers.

“I’ve never told you this, but… you’re gorgeous. Is it inappropriate if I ask you out?”

My heart stuttered. My cheeks flushed.

“I’m thirty-four,” was all I managed. “Do you realize that?”