How Does Read Aloud Benefit Children In Delaware?

This book is authored by Ariel Eyre. "She is deaf." "What, she can't be deaf. I have never heard of a deaf wolf. It is impossible." "I am serious. She had an accident when she was six. She didn't have her wolf then, and it couldn't heal, resulting in hearing loss." She smiled. Her smile could have knocked me over. It was something I would want to see as often as I could. "Can you hear me?" She just shook her head. How on earth would I communicate with her if she couldn't talk? If I marked her, I could mind-link. I could mark her here and now. It is my right, after all. But she may not like that. I had to wonder if her being deaf, though, would be okay. If I marked her, she would be Luna to my pack. She would need to be strong. I had no idea if losing her hearing made her weak. As much as I wanted to claim her on the spot, I would need to know that she could hold her own. Or, at the very least, could be taught to fight. --------- When I pressured my brother to take me down to the southern territory I just wanted to experience the way the rest of the world lived. Growing up in the north is brutal and we survive off the land. But I never expected to meet my mate and from a southern pack made it all the more difficult. His values differed from my own. The way his pack lived was the opposite of how I was raised. The brutality of my life would lead me to make decisions that put the Shadow Pack in jeopardy.

On the seventh day after my daughter goes missing, I kidnap an entire kindergarten. I lock away all 27 students and two teachers in a classroom. I tell the police that if they can't find my daughter, I will kill a kid every 30 minutes. The principal falls to her knees, wailing and begging, "It's not my fault that your daughter is missing. Why should other children pay for it?" I glance at my watch. "29 minutes left. Find her." I know she's in this kindergarten.

I was getting my 18th fertility injection, but my husband snatched the syringe away from me. "That thing's tormented you for three years. I heard we'll get a child of our own if we adopt a kid. Maybe we can go with that." He brought home an adorable baby girl that afternoon and called her Cece. He would make a lot of faces to make her laugh and loved her like she was his own. My husband rarely smiled after we got married. It wasn't every day he made a request, and I, cradled by my fantasy of having our own baby, went along with his plan. Three years had gone by since we took Cece in, but I had gotten no child of my own. I was also slightly concerned that she couldn't utter a single word even though she was already four years old. I made a lot of trips and put in a lot of effort to help her. One day, I came home only to find out there were voices in the room. "I miss you, Mom. Please come back soon." Ecstasy caught me in its grip and stopped me in my tracks. I wanted to call out to Cece, but I saw her in a video call through the ajar door. My husband was right by Cece, and his eyes were glued to the screen. They were filled with the kind of devotion I had never seen before. My footsteps went quiet before I realized it. My silence was rewarded when a voice came from the phone, saying, "Mommy's coming back next week, Cece."

While on vacation, I return to my hometown to help my parents harvest pears. After seeing my Instagram post, my son's homeroom teacher, Ernest Dugan, sends me a private message. "So you sell pears, Mr. Miller? The kindergarten hasn't finalized next month's fruit supplier yet, so we'll order from you. You won't suffer any loss from this deal. I'll pay five dollars per pound. You just need to arrange transportation and deliver them to the kindergarten." I almost laugh out loud. My family's pears are the famous Green Jewel variety; they are known as the "Hermes of pears". They sell for over 100 dollars per pound on average. Five dollars wouldn't even cover the cost of a single pear. Even though Ernest is being ridiculous, I still reply politely, "Sorry, all of our pears are reserved. You'll need to find another supplier." To my surprise, Ernest immediately posts photos of my family's pears in the parent group chat. He writes, "Next month's fruit selection for the kindergarten will be upgraded to Green Jewel pears. If anyone wishes to buy some for personal consumption, feel free to place orders below. The price is five dollars per pound." The chat group buzzes with activity as parents rush to place orders one after another. Three days later, they block the truck carrying my shipment to Windford. Determined to force the sale, they surround the vehicle and refuse to let it leave. Before they can ransack the truck, several military-plated vehicles arrive and seal off the road. A group of officials steps out with stern, angry expressions. One of them coldly demands, "These are pears specially ordered for this weekend's state banquet. Who said you could lay a finger on them?"

To encourage overall development, the kindergarten had asked each student to create a hand-drawn poster. My daughter Holly refused my help and insisted on doing it all on her own. Little did I know, most of the other children had their parents do the artwork for them. In comparison, Holly's delicate strokes were quickly dismissed. Not only was her work discarded into the trash, but her teacher also called her out in the parent group, criticizing her for being careless with the assignment. As I racked my brain trying to figure out how to help Holly regain her confidence in drawing, I was surprised to see Holly's artwork among the winning entries in the state-level children's art competition. But the signature wasn't hers—it belonged to another student from her class.

"Mommy, you have to be the first person to come pick me up, okay?" These are my daughter Dorothy Grant's final words to me when she walked me out of the house this morning. But when I stand at the kindergarten's entrance with a box of Dorothy's favorite strawberry shortcake in my hands, the security guard just stares at me as though I lost my mind. "Ma'am, this place might be where Sunflower Kindergarten is located, but it has already closed its doors for three years. This place is now a retirement home." I rush into the "kindergarten" instantly. The spot where the slide used to be is now replaced by a row of flowerbeds. The room that used to be the classroom now hosts a bunch of elderly people, who bask in the sunlight. With trembling hands, I call my husband, Chester Grant, on the phone. He sounds very exasperated and exhausted over the phone. "Honey, we've been married for five years, and we choose to be childless. You've never given birth before."