To Build a Home

Chapter 11

“Isaac, Daddy’s here,” his teacher, Miss Joyce, announced happily as Stiles stood in the doorway. The two adults watched as the toddler slowly dragged his schoolbag across the floor from the colorful carpet where the rest of his classmates sat, eyes cast downward as he walked.

“Hey, bud,” Stiles smiled as he squatted down and took the corner of Isaac’s project in his hand. “Did you make this today?”

Isaac quickly pulled the paper from Stiles’ grip, forcing it to rip right down the center, leaving each of them with one jagged half.

“Isaac, honey,” he tried, body moving to pull his son close, but the toddler flinched and backed away, wrapping his arms tightly around his stomach over what was left of the project. Stiles took a deep breath and held back when he realized Isaac was having one of his days, the ones the child psychologist had said would crop up on occasion, often without any warning. The steroids he’d been taking since he’d come home from the hospital a little over a week ago definitely weren’t helping the situation, either.

He could feel the teacher and parents behind him watching, judging his ability to handle the situation, and suddenly Stiles felt ill-equipped to even get his son to the car. Because when Isaac slipped into one of his “moods”, something as small as getting him to hold hands crossing the street could become a vicious battle.

“He didn’t really say much today,” the teacher said as she pulled Stiles aside to talk and let the assistant start releasing the other children. He sighed as he glanced at the shredded construction paper in his hand, unable to keep himself from thinking that maybe everything that they’d worked so hard as a family to get past with Isaac was now working against them. “Wouldn’t participate, didn’t want to play with anyone. He had a bit of a meltdown in music and I had to take him into the hallway to calm him down.”

Stiles was a teacher; he knew where the conversation was going. I know that’s not typical behavior for Isaac, so I’m a little concerned, was going through his head seconds before she said something similar. He nodded, unable to say anything as he focused on his son who was standing in the middle of the room hugging himself, lips pursed together like he was working his hardest to keep himself from falling apart.

And then the teacher asked, in a whisper, “Is everything okay?” and Stiles just pulled his lips in and let his head fall. Because things were definitely not okay. Not at home, not at work, not with anything. He turned his head away to keep himself from crying, because who cries when they go to pick their child up from preschool?

“His asthma meds make him really moody sometimes,” Stiles found himself saying, voice low and dry, but he knew it was more than that and he could sense that the teacher did, too. She nodded and Stiles was thankful she could read subtext.

“He’s, uh, been on a lot of medication since the pneumonia,” Stiles continued, voice breaking as he added, “and he’s kind of been all over the place because some of the treatments make him hyper and others make him drowsy or hungry or upset. I’m so sorry about his behavior today. We have an appointment with the psychologist coming up and I’ll talk to Isaac about-”

She put her hand up to stop him and gave the most understanding smile Stiles had ever seen. “I’m not trying to make you feel judged, Mr. Stilinski. I know that your family has been through a lot in the past few months and I just wanted to touch base with you about Isaac. From what I’ve been observing, today was just an off day and I wouldn’t worry too much about it, okay?”

Stiles nodded and thanked her before kneeling beside Isaac to attempt to coax him out of the classroom and into the hallway that he knew was full of people and strollers and noise that threatened to make just the trip out of the school a nightmare.