So far, Miranda is raising her ex-lover's, Dougie, son. Now Dougie is back and Miranda is afraid that he wants to take Waylon. She catches two shoplifters and gives them a punishment of sorts by making them clean up the store. Now, she decides to talk to Waylon's teacher.

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After Waylon falls asleep, I crawl into my bed and think about my next move. I need to check with the court to make sure Dougie's sudden reappearance doesn't nullify my temporary custody agreement. I think about the things that damn teacher wrote on Waylon's paper. Even if it wasn't perfect, the note was just so negative. Aren't you, as a teacher, supposed to be molding the minds of our youth? Why would someone be so ugly to a kid, especially a kid who is trying? I had a teacher like him. My teacher hid his abusive words under the guise of humor, but they still hurt. I take ten deep breaths and try to clear my mind. (Rita told me she saw this on Tik Tok as a sure fire way to relax and fall asleep.) I try to keep my eyes closed but like a kid on Christmas Eve, I'm wired.

I go into the kitchen and grab the phone, take it back to my room and dial Mitch's number.

"Hello, Miranda, does your mother know you're still awake?" he teases.

"I won't tell if you don't tell," I lay back on the bed and close my eyes, trying to picture his face.

"What's going through that pretty head of yours? I know if you're calling this late at night, something is bothering you."

I groan. "I can't just call the man I love simply to hear his voice?"

At this, he laughs. "Out with it."

Hearing his voice makes me smile. Makes me feel silly for being so worked up about everything. Mitch makes everything make sense.

"I'm scared that Dougie is going to take Waylon. I'm worried about one of his teachers. The guy seems to be hell bent on destroying any confidence that Waylon has. I was thinking about paying him a little visit one day this week."

"You think it's that bad? Waylon is in eleventh grade. Maybe let him handle it for a little while longer. They haven't even been in school for a whole month yet."

Even though he can't see it, I frown. "But I want to meet this teacher. Maybe, if we can talk, I can let him know how it's affecting Waylon. I'm not gonna go for his jugular."

"That's exactly what you're gonna go for, Miranda. This is what you live for. If you feel like you have to contact him, send a note. Maybe that will let him know you're concerned about Waylon."

"You're such a good mom, Mitch," I whisper. "Your girls are lucky to have you."

"Alright, alright, enough of that. Go to bed Miranda. I'll see you tomorrow. Love you."

"Love you," I say as I disconnect. I hold the phone close to my chest. How did I luck out with him? After all of the losers and red flags, I finally got a good one. "Good for you, Miranda," I whisper to myself as I start to feel my eyes closing on their own. "Good for you."

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I take Waylon to school in the morning, drop him off and purposely avoid eye contact with Mr. Tomlin. To look at him might trigger him ... or me. I drive to the visitor parking lot, pull into a space and turn off the engine. The cars are still pulling through the line, but it's dwindling. I hop out of the car and walk directly over to where he is standing.

"Mr. Tomlin," I say, plastering my best smile on my face. "I'm Miranda, Waylon's," I stumble over the way to describe my relationship with Waylon. I needn't have worried because he waves his hand at me like I'm a pesky mosquito.

"Waylon's mommy, and you're here because your little man is having a hard time in my class. Probably the first hard time he's ever had."

My teeth sink into my own tongue in an attempt to be civil. "Actually, I was wondering if you have time to talk about his work. He loves Marine biology and is talking about studying it in college. It would be nice if you were a tad more encouraging."

Tomlin, turns, looking down his long nose at me. "Mrs. Wilcox, it's not my job to encourage these kids, my job is to teach."

"It is your job to encourage them. And, I'm not Mrs. Wilcox. My name is Miranda Buckley," I snap. "This kid has been through hell the past two years. I may not be his mother, but I promise you, if you continue to pick on him, you will be running into me again."

I turn and start walking back to my car.

"If you think I'm going to change how I teach because of a middle aged woman's tantrum, you're in for a disappointment," he calls out to my retreating back.

I stop, and turn slowly to face him. He thinks he got me with the middle aged comment, but he would be wrong. Hell, he's my age, maybe a little older. "Mr. Tomlin, I'm afraid this was me being polite. When I have a tantrum, as you call it, you will wet your prissy little britches. That is a fact. Good day, Mr. Tomlin."

I don't bother to wait for a reply. I didn't come to fight. I came to talk to him adult to adult. Too bad that didn't work out.