The school gates are old iron, painted black, the kind that look like they belong to a church rather than a place of learning. A group of students mill about near the entrance, backpacks slung over shoulders, voices carrying across the yard. Hope squeezes my hand once before letting go.
"Remember, daddy. You're just here to see the teachers. Don't stare at anyone."
"I won't stare."
She gives me a look that says she doesn't quite believe me. I can't blame her. She knows what I'm like.
We approach the gate. A staff member stands beside it — middle-aged man in a cheap suit, clipboard in hand. His eyes land on me immediately.
"Morning, Mr. Davies," Hope says.
"Morning, Hope. Who's this?"
"My dad. He's here to meet my teachers today."
He looks me over, then nods and ticks something on his clipboard. "Sign in at the office first."
"Will do."
