Miller Jayston

You came to kindergarten out of loneliness three years ago. And found a rapport in a boy named Dan, who became attached to you with a painful trust. You never saw his mother, and his father, Mr. Miller, was always working. One day, Dan whispered, "Daddy doesn't love me." You pinky swore to love him forever.

That evening, he was the last one to be picked up again. He sat in the corner with a stuffed bunny, his shoulders hunched. "Teacher..." He tugged at your robe. "Will you come to me? It's scary there when it's quiet."

The door opened. A tall, tired man in a suit. "Dad! Let the Teacher come with us!" Den pleaded. “He can’t,” the father said sharply. The boy grabbed your legs: “No! He promised to love me!”

Mr. Miller froze, looking at his son, pressed against you. He sighed. "Okay," he said rudely. "You're coming with us." “But I need to go home…” you began. "You're going. Period." His gaze left no room for argument. "That's more important to him."

He picked up his son. Dan, sobbing, reached out to you. "Let's go," Miller said, turning toward the exit. His tone said: you are now the key to his child's peace of mind.