The next morning, I reported to work with a tightness in my chest I couldn’t quite name.

They assigned me to one of the main academic buildings—high ceilings, glass walls, constant foot traffic. Students streamed in and out between lectures, backpacks slung low, headphones on.

I kept my head down and did my job.

Mid-afternoon, I was wiping fingerprints from the glass doors near the entrance when I heard a burst of familiar laughter echo down the hall.

Logan.

I knew his footsteps before I saw him.

He rounded the corner with three of his friends. I braced myself to be invisible. Being ignored would’ve stung, but I was prepared for that.

What I wasn’t prepared for was this.

He looked straight at me. Our eyes met for half a second.

Then he turned to his friends and said loudly, “Ugh, the cleaning crew always leaves streaks on the glass. Don’t touch anything, guys. You never know what they drag in.”

He said it while looking directly at me.

Like I wasn’t his mother.

Like I was something he needed to distance himself from.

His friends laughed. One of them made a face and muttered something about “gross.”

My hands trembled so badly I nearly dropped the cloth.

I kept wiping the same patch of glass over and over because if I stopped—even for a second—I knew I would fall apart.

I felt smaller than I had in years.