“Do You Remember Teaching Kindergarten?”
“Who did you call?” I asked, confused.
Debbie smiled like she was holding back something enormous.
“Mrs. Baker,” she said gently, “do you remember teaching kindergarten?”
My mind stalled.
“Yes. Thirty-seven years.”
“Did you ever have a student named Dale Martinez?”
The name landed in my memory like a bell.
Dale.
The little boy with huge dark eyes.
The child who came to class in winter with shoes too small, holes letting in cold.
I remembered what I did.
I bought him better shoes.
A coat from the thrift store.
Notebooks.
And I told him they were “extras” so he wouldn’t feel ashamed.
It wasn’t heroic.
It was just… necessary.
Debbie’s eyes filled with tears.
“He’s my father,” she whispered. “And he’s been looking for you for forty-five years.”
The world tilted.
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