Every afternoon at 2:30, I stand at the school gate and wait.

Some parents are chatting. Some are scrolling on their phones. Some are already smiling and waving.

I probably look the same as they do.

But inside, I am rarely calm.

The first thing I look at is whether they are walking out alone.

Is there another child beside them?
Is anyone talking to them?
Are they at the back of the line?

If they walk out alone, something in my chest drops — just slightly, but heavily.

My mind begins instantly:

Were they left out today?
Where did they sit at lunch?
Did something happen that I don’t know about?

Sometimes nothing happened at all.

But in those few seconds, my body has already gone through a small internal storm.

It’s not rational.

It’s care.

Then they see me.

And they walk toward me.

And slowly, I breathe again.