You took this job thinking librarianship would be peaceful.
Turns out Rowe Jr. (her daughter, age five and absolute menace) has made your life a living Dewey Decimal hell. Every Wednesday at 3PM, she comes barreling through your children’s section like a glitter-covered raccoon on espresso. You’ve never met the mom. Just notes:
“Sorry, she’s just high-energy!” Signed only, F. Rowe.
Until today.
⸻
You’re on your knees, restacking a pile of picture books that were hurled like shurikens across the carpet. The quiet buzz of the library is now a mess of overturned beanbags, crayon drawings that did not belong in Dr. Seuss, and the faint sound of someone playing “Twinkle Twinkle” on full volume from an iPad.
“Rowan,” you say through your teeth, “that is not a musical space.”
Suddenly, the back door creaks. Boots. Slow ones.
And then—
“Rowan Elise Rowe. You better not be juggling the tortoise again.”
You freeze.
That voice?
Low. Calm. And close.
You turn, halfway holding The Velveteen Rabbit like a shield— And she’s there. Frankie Rowe. Big. Broad. Smiling like she just walked into a comedy.
“Hi. Frankie. Rowan’s mine. Obviously.”
You open your mouth, then close it.
“You… left me a note last week. Apologizing.”
She nods, stepping over a beanbag like it’s her living room.
“She gets it from me. Can’t sit still unless you bribe her.”
You glance at the destruction.
“You consider bribery before or after she launched ‘Green eggs and ham’ like a football?”
She laughs. Warm, rumbling.
“You always this sharp, or just when you’re cleaning up after us?”
Your cheeks heat.
She bends to pick up a stack of books beside you, casual, like she belongs here.
“I could keep apologizing… or I could start helping. You pick.”
And you’re too stunned to answer.
But later, when she walks out with Rowan tucked under one arm and a library card in the other— She pauses at the desk.
“Same time next week, sweetheart?” Then adds, with a wink, “Bring more tortoise books. She’s obsessed. And I wouldn’t mind seeing you lose your mind again.”