Walsh Family Universe V2

The conversation started in late August, a month after his third birthday.

"We need to talk about school," Patrick said over dinner.

Ash's fork paused halfway to his mouth. School. Of course. Three-year-olds went to preschool. It was the next inevitable step in this progression.

"St. Catherine's has an excellent preschool program," Shannon said. "Three mornings a week to start. Very gentle introduction to structured learning."

St. Catherine's. The Catholic church where the Walsh family had attended for decades. Where Claire and Cathy and Declan and Eden had all gone to school. Where Ash—the original Ash—had attended until high school.

"I don't want to go to school."

"Honey, all children go to school. It's important for development." Shannon cut his chicken into smaller pieces. "You'll make more friends. Learn new things. It'll be good for you."

"I already know how to read. I already know math. I don't need preschool."

Patrick and Shannon exchanged a look.

"The program knows about your situation," Patrick said carefully. "The director, Mrs. Brennan, has been fully briefed. She understands that you have... advanced knowledge. But Noam, you still need age-appropriate social development. You need to be around other children your age in a structured environment."

"I have Emma and Marcus."

"And you'll probably have them in your class too," Shannon said. "Won't that be nice? Going to school with your friends?"

Ash felt the familiar trap closing. They'd already decided. Already enrolled him. This conversation was just a courtesy, an illusion of choice.

"Do I have to?"

"Yes," Patrick said gently. "You do. But we think you'll like it once you give it a chance."

The Sunday before school started, they went to Mass at St. Catherine's. Ash hadn't been to church since before—since being Ash. The building was familiar and strange at once, memory overlaying current reality.

He sat between Patrick and Shannon in the pew, small legs dangling, unable to reach the kneeler without help. The last time he'd been here, he'd been tall enough to see over the pew in front of him. Now he could barely see anything but the backs of people's heads.

Father Michael gave a homily about new beginnings and God's grace. Shannon squeezed Ash's hand.

After Mass, they walked to the school building attached to the church. The preschool wing had been renovated since Ash's childhood—brighter, more colorful, with small furniture and bulletin boards covered in construction paper decorations.

"Let me show you your classroom," Shannon said, leading him down the hallway.

The room had round tables instead of desks, a reading corner with cushions, an art station, a dramatic play area with costumes and toy kitchen equipment. Name tags on small cubbies along one wall.

Shannon pointed to one. "That's yours. See? Noam Walsh."

His name. His new name. On a cubby in a preschool classroom.

Mrs. Brennan appeared—a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and sensible shoes. "You must be Noam! I'm so excited to have you in my class this year."

She crouched down to his level, but her eyes held an awareness that the other teachers probably wouldn't have. She knew. Knew he wasn't really three, knew the situation, knew this was complicated.

"Hi," Ash said quietly.

"We're going to have a wonderful year," Mrs. Brennan said. "I have lots of fun activities planned. We'll do art and music and stories and play. Does that sound good?"

It sounded like preschool. Like what it was.

"Sure."

"Perfect." Mrs. Brennan stood, addressing Shannon. "Tuesday morning, 8:30 drop-off. Don't worry if there are tears the first few days. That's completely normal."

She meant from him. She was expecting him to cry on the first day of preschool.

Monday night, Shannon laid out his school clothes. Khaki pants and a navy blue polo shirt with the St. Catherine's logo—the uniform.

"You're going to look so handsome," she said, hanging them on the closet door. "My little scholar."

Ash stared at the tiny uniform. The last time he'd worn a St. Catherine's uniform, it had been high school sized. Navy blazer and tie. Now it was a toddler polo shirt.

"What if I don't like it?"

Shannon sat on the edge of his bed—he'd graduated from the crib to a toddler bed after his birthday. "Then we'll talk about it. But I think you're going to like it more than you expect. Mrs. Brennan is wonderful. And you'll have friends there."

"What if the other kids are mean?"

"Why would they be mean?"

"Because I'm... different."

Shannon's expression softened with understanding. "They don't know you're different, honey. To them, you're just Noam. Another three-year-old starting preschool. And you are three—that's real. The rest is just... extra information that they don't need to have."

Extra information. That's what they called his entire previous life.

"I'm scared," Ash admitted.

"I know, baby. First days are always scary. But you're so brave. You've been so brave through everything this year." Shannon pulled him into a hug. "And Mommy will be right there with you. I'm allowed to stay for the first hour, to help you settle in."

That should have been comforting. Instead, it reminded him that he was young enough to need his mother to stay at school with him.

Tuesday morning arrived too quickly. Shannon woke him early, got him dressed in his uniform, made his favorite breakfast—chocolate chip pancakes.

"Big day!" Patrick said, kissing the top of his head before leaving for work. "You're going to do great, buddy. Learn lots. Make friends. Have fun."

The drive to St. Catherine's felt surreal. Ash watched familiar streets pass by, remembered driving this same route as a teenager, late for class, hanging out in the parking lot with friends who smoked cigarettes and complained about homework.

Now he was in a car seat, clutching a new backpack with his name embroidered on it, heading to preschool.

The parking lot was full of parents with small children. Some kids were crying, clinging to their parents. Others were excited, running toward the building. Most were somewhere in between—nervous but willing.

"Ready?" Shannon asked, unbuckling him from the car seat.

"No."

"That's okay. You don't have to be ready. You just have to try." She took his hand. "Come on. Let's go meet your class."

The hallway was organized chaos. Parents and children everywhere, name tags being checked, teachers greeting students. Shannon led him to Mrs. Brennan's classroom.

Emma was already there, wearing the uniform jumper version for girls, excitedly showing her mom the reading corner. She saw Ash and waved enthusiastically.

"Noam! You're in my class!"

Some of the nervousness eased. Emma was here. That was something.

Marcus arrived next, looking overwhelmed but managing a small wave at Ash. Then Tyler from T-ball. And several kids Ash didn't know—children who'd be meeting Noam Walsh for the first time.

Mrs. Brennan clapped her hands. "Good morning, everyone! Welcome to preschool! Let's all come sit in a circle on the rug so we can introduce ourselves."

The children migrated to the colorful rug in the center of the room. Parents hovered at the edges. Ash sat between Emma and Marcus, his small body tense with anxiety.

"I'm Mrs. Brennan, and I'm so happy you're all here," she said warmly. "Let's go around the circle and everyone can say their name and one thing they like. I'll start. I'm Mrs. Brennan, and I like cats. Who wants to go next?"

Emma's hand shot up. "I'm Emma and I like rainbows!"

They went around the circle. Marcus liked swimming. Tyler liked trucks. A girl named Sofia liked princesses. A boy named Jacob liked dinosaurs.

Then it was Ash's turn.

Everyone looked at him. Fourteen three-year-olds and their teacher, waiting for him to introduce himself.

"I'm Noam," he said quietly. "I like art."

"Art! Wonderful!" Mrs. Brennan smiled. "We have lots of art activities planned. You'll love our art station."

The circle continued. More names, more interests, the simple self-introduction of young children who'd never had to question who they were.

After introductions, Mrs. Brennan explained the classroom rules and daily schedule. Then she let them explore the different stations while parents gradually said goodbye.

Shannon lingered, watching as Ash gravitated toward the art station. He picked up a crayon, started coloring in a coloring book—something he'd outgrown mentally but his hands knew how to do.

"You're doing great," Shannon whispered, crouching beside him. "I'm going to go in a few minutes, okay? But I'll be right back at pickup time. Three hours. That's all."

Three hours. It felt like forever and no time at all.

"Okay," Ash said.

Shannon kissed his forehead and left, along with most of the other parents. A few stragglers remained for particularly clingy children, but mostly it was just Mrs. Brennan and her class of fourteen three-year-olds.

"Alright, friends!" Mrs. Brennan called. "Let's transition to morning circle time. We're going to read a story!"

The children gathered on the rug again. Mrs. Brennan held up a picture book—something simple, designed for preschoolers, with bright illustrations and simple text.

Ash sat cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by his classmates, and listened to a story he could have read himself in thirty seconds. Listened to Mrs. Brennan ask simple comprehension questions that the other kids struggled with.

"What color was the dog?" Mrs. Brennan asked.

"Brown!" several kids shouted.

Ash said nothing. He knew what color the dog was. He knew the entire plot. He knew this was teaching moment designed for three-year-olds who were just beginning to understand narrative structure.

He was twenty-five years old in a preschool classroom learning what color the dog was.

After story time came music. Mrs. Brennan played guitar while they sang simple songs—"The Wheels on the Bus," "If You're Happy and You Know It," songs Ash remembered from actual childhood decades ago.

He mouthed the words, did the motions when required, participated minimally.

"You know all the songs!" Emma said excitedly during a pause. "You're really good at singing!"

"Thanks."

Then snack time. Goldfish crackers and apple juice in small cups. They sat at the round tables, eating and chatting in the chaotic way of three-year-olds.

"Do you have brothers and sisters?" Sofia asked Ash.

"Yeah. Four."

"I have one brother. He's a baby." Sofia made a face. "Babies are boring."

"I have a niece who's a baby," Ash heard himself say. "Sophie."

"You're an uncle?" Marcus looked impressed. "That's cool."

It was cool to three-year-olds. The impossible age dynamics didn't register as strange to them.

After snack was free play. Ash returned to the art station, drawing with markers while Emma and Sofia played in the dramatic play area and Marcus built with blocks.

Mrs. Brennan circulated through the room, checking on students, helping with conflicts, praising effort. When she reached Ash, she paused.

"You're very talented," she said quietly, looking at his drawing—abstract patterns with impressive color theory for a three-year-old.

"Thanks."

"How are you feeling? First day going okay?"

"It's fine."

Mrs. Brennan sat in the small chair beside him. "I know this is probably... different from what you're used to. But I'm glad you're here. And I'm going to make sure you're challenged appropriately. You don't have to pretend to be less than you are."

Ash looked at her. She got it. She understood that he was capable of more than what was being taught.

"It's just weird," he admitted.

"I'm sure it is. But you're doing wonderfully. Really." Mrs. Brennan stood. "Keep drawing. That's beautiful work."

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of activities designed for three-year-olds. They practiced writing letters—just tracing, just learning how to hold a pencil. They did a simple science activity—mixing colors with water and food coloring. They had outdoor play time on the playground.

Ash went through the motions. Participated when required. Kept mostly to himself except when Emma or Marcus pulled him into their play.

Finally, Mrs. Brennan announced cleanup time, then had them all sit on the rug one more time.

"You all did such a wonderful job on your first day!" she said. "I'm so proud of each of you. Let's say our goodbye prayer."

The children held hands in the circle. Ash found himself between Emma and a boy named Christopher, their small hands in his.

Mrs. Brennan led them through a simple prayer. "Thank you God for this day, for our friends, for our school. Help us to be kind and learn and grow. Amen."

"Amen," the children chorused.

Then parents started arriving for pickup. Shannon appeared in the doorway, smiling, phone ready to take a picture of Ash on his first day of school.

"How was it?" she asked as soon as she reached him.

"Fine."

"Just fine?"

"It was good," Ash amended, because it was easier than explaining the complexity of sitting in a circle learning what color the dog was when he'd read Hemingway and Faulkner and could have discussed literary theory.

"I'm so proud of you." Shannon hugged him. "Did you make any new friends?"

"Not really. Emma and Marcus are in my class though."

"That's wonderful! Come on, let's get you home. You must be exhausted."

In the car, Shannon asked a dozen questions about the day. What activities they did, what he learned, if he liked Mrs. Brennan, what he had for snack.

Ash answered mechanically, staring out the window at familiar streets.

"You know what? Let's celebrate," Shannon said suddenly. "Ice cream on the way home. My big preschooler deserves a treat."

They stopped at the ice cream shop. Shannon got him a small cone—chocolate, his favorite. They sat at an outdoor table, Ash eating his ice cream while Shannon smiled at him like he'd accomplished something momentous.

"I'm so proud of you," she said again. "First day of school. You were so brave."

Brave. That word again. Like going to preschool when you'd already graduated high school was an act of courage rather than an act of survival.

"It was just school," Ash said.

"It was your first day of school. That's always special." Shannon took a picture of him with his ice cream cone. "Wait until Daddy sees this."

That night, Patrick came home with a small gift—a book about starting school, age-appropriate and well-meaning.

"How was the big day?" Patrick asked, swinging Ash up in the air and catching him.

"It was okay."

"Just okay?" Patrick set him down. "Did you learn anything interesting?"

"What color the dog in the story was."

Patrick's expression flickered—understanding, sympathy, something else. "Ah. I see."

"It's fine," Ash said, because what else could he say? It wasn't fine, but it was his life now.

At dinner, they talked about school like it was normal. Patrick and Shannon asked questions, praised his participation, talked about how proud they were.

After dinner, Shannon gave him a bath, washing the day off—the nervousness and the crayons and the goldfish cracker crumbs.

"You're going to do so well this year," she said, shampooing his hair. "Make lots of friends, learn lots of things. Preschool is special."

In his toddler bed that night, Ash thought about the day. About sitting in circle time learning what color the dog was. About Emma's excitement that he knew all the songs. About Mrs. Brennan's quiet understanding that he was more than he appeared.

About wearing a uniform that marked him as a St. Catherine's student, just like he'd been fifteen years ago. Except then he'd been a teenager. Now he was three.

"My name is Ash," he whispered. "I'm twenty-five years old. I went to preschool today."

The contradiction was so absurd it almost made him laugh.

Almost.

Five thousand four hundred and seventy-three days to go.

But today he'd survived his first day of preschool. Had sat in circle time and colored pictures and eaten goldfish crackers and held hands for prayer.

Had been brave, apparently.

Had been a good student.

Had been Noam Walsh, three-year-old preschooler at St. Catherine's.

Tomorrow he'd go back. And the day after that. Three mornings a week, learning things he already knew, playing with children who were actually three, being the student Mrs. Brennan knew was different but treated the same.

He closed his eyes and tried not to think about the fourteen more years of school stretching ahead of him.

Tried not to calculate how many first days he'd have.

Tried to just be tired from his first day of preschool, like any other three-year-old would be.

And eventually, exhausted from the emotional weight of it all, he fell asleep.

Dreaming of circle time and gold stars and the complicated mathematics of being both twenty-five and three, both Ash and Noam, both too old and exactly the right age.

Always both.

Forever both.