All That Really Matters by Nicole Deese (new books to read TXT) 📕

The class laughed, and he did, too. “But I got to talk to my old foster dad this afternoon, and I gave him my number. And . . .” Devon paused, swallowed. “He told me he was proud of me. And that he’d been praying I’d check in with him and let him know how I’d been doing. So yeah, today I’m grateful to have a phone, but even more grateful that I have someone to call on it.”

I stood and clapped Devon on the back, pulling him in to a quick hug as the room erupted once again. That kid had come so far since his first few weeks here. There was a time I hadn’t been sure if Devon would ever let go of the facade he wore long enough to let us in. But once again, God continued to prove His timing was right on schedule. Even when that schedule wasn’t made by me.

I cut another glance at Molly; this time her expressive eyes were on me, only I couldn’t interpret the thoughts behind them before she shifted her gaze to the other side of the room.

Amy and Alex and Jasmine all stepped up after Devon, each sharing a high or low, and reminding me for the thousandth time why it was worth it. The sacrifice, the long hours, the trustee meetings, the minimal pay, and the pending approval on a matching grant that would require everything we had to give and more.

And still, I’d do it all over again.

As the line dwindled, I moved to wrap up the evening before we prayed out and dismissed for the night, when I saw a flash of copper. There were few things in life that left me dumbstruck, but watching Wren make her way to the platform counted as one. She’d never participated in this portion of our community activities. But here she was, coming to take the stage, her hands trembling as she addressed her peers.

“Um . . .” Her lips quivered, and I prepared for her to bolt under the pressure. But Glo set her cookie tray down and went to stand beside her. We had a house rule about not rescuing one another from moments of vulnerability, but one way we encouraged support was simply to stand or sit beside the sharer.

I’d never been prouder of my staff.

I looked to Wren, willing her to open her mouth, to engage with her housemates and connect with the community God had given her.

“I’d like to answer number two and number three.” She took a shuddering breath, and I was sure more people than not were holding theirs in anticipation of Wren’s next words. I was one of them. “I spent most of today pretty upset about a change in routine I had no control over. For a while, it was looking like my weekly visitations to see my brother would be cut back to twice a month due to transportation issues. I couldn’t imagine seeing him less. He’s the . . . he’s the . . .” She closed her mouth, knotted her fingers. “He’s the only reason I’ve kept going when I haven’t wanted to. That was my low point.” Her eyes cut from me to Molly, and Wren’s chin started to quiver once again. “But tonight I’m grateful for my mentor, Molly. She’s offered to take me to see Nate each week.” She choked on a sob and placed her hand to her mouth. “I’m not sure if I can say what feeling close to God feels like exactly, but I imagine it feels a lot like this.”

As Wren stepped off the stage, her fellow housemates stood and cheered, not only for Wren, but also for Molly, whose own tears were now a steady stream down her cheeks.

With a single glance in Glo’s direction, I communicated my next move, and without a moment’s hesitation she understood and took the stage to close out the evening in my place. Because in roughly ten seconds, I would be needed elsewhere. If there was one thing I’d learned to recognize after years of working in social services, it was a flight risk.

And Molly was about to make a run for it.

Molly

Despite the weight pressing against my ribcage, I’d summoned a feeble smile when Wren had come back to her seat and thanked me once again for my offer. It was then she’d hugged me. An actual hug that had likely cost her far more than it had me, and yet, something about it had forced all the air from my lungs.

The instant Monica approached to encourage Wren, I excused myself and bolted for the exit at the back of the room. For once in my life, I prayed the attention would not be on me—the crying mentor who hadn’t a clue what her life was even about anymore.

I was halfway across the dusky lot when Silas called my name from somewhere behind me. For the briefest of moments, I considered the odds of outrunning him. If I could sprint to my car and engage the zero-to-sixty-in-two-point-six-seconds perk that Tesla fans raved about before Silas could catch up to me. But then what?

Where would I even go? Instagram didn’t have a destination I could drive to.

“Molly,” he said again, his voice closer, calmer than the first time. As if he couldn’t sense the panic invading my every labored breath. “You don’t have to leave.”

His words were so unexpected that I actually stopped, right there in the middle of the gravel driveway, and spun to face him. “But I should leave. And you should want me to.”

Not a flinch to his face. “Why?”

Because I can’t breathe here. “Because you were right. I’m not a good fit for your program. I’m . . . I’m not the kind of person you want as a mentor.”

He narrowed those deep dark eyes of his. “And what kind of person is that?”

I shivered, though I wasn’t cold. “Someone who’s selfless and caring and isn’t constantly looking out for her own personal gain wherever she goes.