When She Walks Away (Teresa) novel Chapter 38

Chapter 38

Over at the Sullivan Mansion, the family had held off on dinner, waiting for Teresa.

Now, the dining table hummed with warmth–Monica was tucked between Teresa and Yvonne, her plate already stacked with bits of honey–glazed ham and buttery rolls, while both women fussed over peeling her shrimp. She was so giddy, her eyes crinkled into little half–moons.

“Mom, Aunt Teresa, tomorrow’s the Thanksgiving play! I’m so excited… but kinda scared too,” Monica said, licking a smudge of tartar sauce off her finger.

Teresa smiled softly, but a weight settled in her chest.

Yvonne brushed a crumb off Monica’s cheek. “Don’t you worry. Aunt Teresa and I—we’ll all be there. Just do your best, okay? If you get a gold star sticker, that’s amazing. But even if you don’t, you’re still our favorite little performer. Deal?”

Monica giggled, her excitement bubbling back up.

Then, as if a thought had just popped into her head, she turned to Teresa, her brows furrowed. “Aunt Teresa… do you think tomorrow will really be okay?”

She’d asked this before.

Monica and Yolanda went to the same kindergarten, after all. Teresa was coming to her play, not Yolanda’s.

It made her happy, but… what if Yolanda felt left out?

Teresa had replayed this a hundred times. She hadn’t known the girls shared a school until Monica mentioned it, and by then, she’d already promised Monica she’d come.

Besides, Yolanda probably didn’t need her there anyway.

She squeezed Monica’s hand, smiling. “It’ll be okay. Promise.”

‘Of course I want to be there for my daughter, Teresa thought, her throat tight. ‘But she doesn’t need me anymore.

Things between us would never be like they were.

If only I hadn’t heard Yolanda say those things… If only I didn’t know Naomi’s the one she really cares about…

But life doesn’t hand out do–overs.

The next morning, Monica was up with the sun. She bounded into Yvonne and her dad’s room first, then raced to Teresa’s door, bouncing on her toes.

Today was the big day–the kindergarten’s Thanksgiving event.

The teacher had said kids could get ready at home or at school, but with Yvonne’s knack for styling as a model, there was no way they were leaving it to the teachers.

They needed to be at school by 8:30, so Yvonne was already up by six, laying out Monica’s outfit.

When Monica’s excited shouts echoed down the hall, Teresa dragged herself out of bed too.

Yvonne spent the next hour fussing over Monica–a tiny pair of overalls dotted with turkeys, a fuzzy orange sweater, and two braids tied with sparkly gold ribbons that bounced when she moved–pure, unfiltered kid energy.

Once Monica was ready, twirling in the mirror and pretending to be a little pilgrim, Yvonne headed to Teresa’s room

“Ter let me do your makeup,” she said hodien up a small makeup bag. “You’ve gotta look nice for our star’s big day!

Teresa was already dressed an a cozy sweater and jeans, a baseball cap perched on her head

She knew kindngjaren zes well–along with the school led performances, there were always parent child games

Chapter 38

Better to keep it casual today, she figured, so she could join in with the kids without fuss.

“Yvonne, I’ll skip the makeup. I’ll be playing games with Monica later,” Teresa said.

She’d daydreamed so many times about joining Yolanda in those parent–child activities–she’d even scoured the internet for ideas.

But she never imagined that by the time her daughter started school, she’d end up feeling like an outsider, watching from the sidelines.

At least she could be there for Monica.

Yvonne saw right through her. She grinned. “Playing games doesn’t mean you can’t look nice. Besides, makeup’s not for anyone else—it’s for you. When you feel good in your skin, everything’s brighter. Come on, just a light, fresh base. Promise it won’t take long.”

Teresa couldn’t resist Yvonne’s warmth, so she gave in.

Ever since Yolanda was born, Teresa rarely bothered with makeup. But her skin was naturally clear–smooth, even, no blemishes–so she still looked as fresh as women her age who fussed over skincare.

A little concealer here, a touch of blush there, and Yvonne’s quick work brought out her features–softer, brighter, somehow younger.

Yvonne held up a mirror. “See? Doesn’t that make a difference?”

Teresa stared at her reflection, surprised.

She’d always been pretty, but since Yolanda came along, she’d let herself fade into the background–Charles had grown used to seeing her with messy hair, stained shirts, always rushing to tend to their daughter.

But Naomi was nothing like that. She was always polished–full makeup, outfits that never repeated, a new look in every social media post Teresa had sneakily scrolled through.

Soft, bold, flirty, chic, playful… she was a chameleon, effortless in every style.

“Teresa?” Yvonne’s voice pulled her back.

She smiled, shaking off the thought. “Wow. I really do look better. Thanks.”

Yvonne patted her shoulder. “Dress up, have fun. The things you’ve lost… they don’t define you. Not anymore.”

Teresa nodded, softening. “Yeah. I get it.”

“I’ll grab our things,” Yvonne said. “We’ll head out at eight sharp.”

At eight on the dot, the three of them left the Sullivan Mansion.

By the time they reached the kindergarten, the place was alive with energy–parents chatting, kids in tiny pilgrim hats and turkey costumes, the air smelling like popcorn and apple cider.

Monica spotted her classmates and lit up, tugging Yvonne and Teresa over. “Guys, this is my mom and my aunt! Aren’t they awesome?” she announced, bearing.

After showing off her “team” to everyone, the teacher called the group together.

The event kicked off not with dances, but with a lineup of classic Thanksgiving performances tailored to tiny performers.

Teresa sat in the audience, her gaze drifting every so often to where Yolanda’s class huddled backstage.

One by one, classes took the floor–some sang “Turkey in the Straw with off–key enthusiasm, others acted out a simplified First Feast akit. tny Pagrins and Native American kids passing around toy com and pumpkins. A few toddlers froze mid–lme or wandered off-

Yolandas turn cute with her class’s gren nuustær—a bouncy song about “Thankful Hearts, complete with hand motions Shedder somingor pana ini nakey feaders on lar checks, and be hair was pulled back in a seat ponytail, no frills–but she grimed the whole Dar beeping up with the qUJOVER

1:06 PM PP

Monica was up later, set to act out a snippet of The Little Red Hen (a story about gratitude and teamwork, the teacher had explained).

Then came Yolanda’s turn.

She stepped onto the small stage alone, her eyes darting across the crowd as if searching for a familiar face.

Murmurs rippled through the parents.

“Is she by herself?”

“Doesn’t she have mom or dad here?”

”

“Poor thing–she looks nervous.”

“Who misses their kid’s first solo? That’s rough.”

Yolanda heard the whispers. Her bottom lip trembled, and her eyes glistened.

Teresa’s chest tightened.

She started to stand, but Yvonne’s hand on her arm stopped her.

Yvonne nodded toward the right, and Teresa turned to see Naomi approaching–dressed in a sleek silk dress, red as cranberry sauce, paired with strappy heels that clicked against the floor. Behind her, two people carried a portable keyboard, and another hauled a folding chair.

Yolanda’s face lit up. “Miss Naomi! You’re here!” she cried, bouncing on her toes.

Naomi navigated the crowd with a smile, climbed onto the stage, and squeezed Yolanda’s hand.

Once the keyboard was set up and the chair placed, she ruffled Yolanda’s hair before sitting down.

Yolanda took her position, ready to dance as Naomi played.

Naomi closed her eyes, then let her fingers dance over the keys. A sweeping, almost classical melody filled the room–beautiful, but far more complex than a kindergartener’s dance should be.

Yolanda, in her frilly dress, tried to twirl and step to the music, but she’d clearly practiced something simpler.

The melody swelled, and her moves grew stilted–a misstep here, a delayed spin there.

Soon, she was visibly flustered, her small frame looking lost amid the music’s grandeur. The dance, once eager, turned awkward—like a sparrow trying to keep up with a swan.