Against one of the rules of writing/keeping interest I've heard people say from the fifth grade (the second being to watch out for the said bookism, the third being 'if I ever catching you call eyes 'orbs' again, I'm going to have to gut you.'), I am going to start this log with an infodump. Have some geography.
The lobby to the church Learning Center is small, as far as lobbies go. It's almost more like a really wide entry hall.
When you first walk in through the doors, there is an enclave to your right. The enclave is the only way to get into the glass-walled office immediately beside you, an on the opposite side of the small rectangle, and as storage closes on the far end. Immediately to your left is the side of a roughly U shaped staircase (except that from your point of view, the U is on its side, with the empty end facing towards the wall opposite you. On the wall opposite you, and the first thing you see when you go inside, is the window to the information desk. The the left of the window are two hallways that look complicated until you realize that they both are part of one big loop, and that if you go down one, a few right turns later and you'll be back at the start. (That's where all the two year olds-kindergarten classes are held). There are four electronic check-in kiosks around the room, two against the wall to your left, four on the right. The two on the right and one of the ones on the right have people working at them, the other three are automatic so regulars can check themselves in.
Exactly opposite the hallway, to the right of the window, right next to the one manual kiosk and tucked against the corner of the right wall is the door to the multipurpose room.
Normally, I get the kiosk next to the stairs. Partly so I can help Delia when her machine inexplicably freezes/won't allow her into the system/checks in kids as adults, adults as special needs, volunteers as staff and staff as ravenous wombats. Partly because I can keep an eye on the doors and the hall and know if anyone tries to sneak in without signing their kid in properly (which is a safety risk, a dick move to the teachers and a dick move to everyone else who actually checked in.
This time, though, Terri (Tom's mom) and me switched, so I was by the multipurpose room.
After the 8:30 crowd had come to pick up their kids, but before the 10:00 crowd had come into drop their kids off, I noticed a little girl named Athena was standing in the doorway, looking sad.
Zeph: What's wrong, honey?
Athena: I'm waiting for my mom. She-she's gonna pick me up.
Zeph: *points to the tags on Athena's chest* Hon, you've got two tags. One for the last service, one for the next. You gotta stay for another hour.
Athena: *starts playing with her second tag* But- but my mom only checks me in for one.
Zeph: I'm sorry, 'Thena, you'll just have to wait for her.
She nodded and went back into the room.
About a half hour later, she came back. This time missing her second tag.
Zeph: You okay, 'Thena?
Athena: I miss my dad.
Zeph: Well it'll only be another hour, then he'll come pick you up. Okay?
She starts to cry. Not the sobbing sort of crying, but the kind that happen almost by surprise when your eyes just kind of fill up on you.
Athena: I can't see my dad. He's dead.
Zeph: . . . Oh. Do. . . d'you want me to put your name up? You want to go home?
She nods and I take her hand and we go into the office. A call is made, and her name is put up on the discreet overhead-thingumy-screen in the big church so her parent can see it.
I leave her in the well qualified care of Rita and go find Terri.
Zeph: Terri, the saddest thing just happened with Athena. When did her dad die, do you know? I thought I saw him not to long ago-
Terri: Her dad?
Zeph: Yeah. She said she missed her dad and she started crying and now she's in there waiting for her mom.
Terri: Oh no. Her mom is dead.
Zeph: Bwuh?
Terri: Her mom is dead, her dad dropped her off. It happened recently, I don't think it's quite registered yet. On Wednesday night she asked if she can use the phone to call her.
Zeph: . . . Oh.
And that's it. Just, oh.
Eight years from now, she'll have been alive longer without her than with. Ten years- maybe less, she won't remember what she looked like without a photograph. She almost certainly won't remember getting out of class and trying to call her mom's cell number.
Just. . . Oh.