I thought I was meeting my son’s math teacher to talk about fractions. Instead, I came face to face with a ghost I never stopped searching for, and the truth she carried shattered everything I believed about the past, my marriage, and the kind of mother I thought I’d been.
Since the divorce, my son has been struggling.
Kyle’s been slipping — grades, sleep, and mood, all of it unraveling. He was always the easy one; the kid who hummed while doing his homework and cried when his pencil eraser wore out.
But after Graham and I split six months ago, Kyle dropped like a stone.
He barely talks now, he flinches at sudden sounds, and last week, he got a D in math.
That’s never happened before.
So I scheduled a meeting with his new teacher, Ms. Miller.
She was in her early 30s, calm and composed, with that soft kind of voice. Her blouse was a dusty blue with little leaf-shaped buttons, and her hair was pinned up like she didn’t want to be noticed.
We sat across from each other in a classroom lined with posters about algebra and growth mindset.
“He’s bright, Dana,” she said gently.
“He just seems… preoccupied. Like he’s halfway here.”
“He is going through a lot. There’s a lot of… change at home.
My husband, Graham… we split up six months ago.”
“I’ve tried everything. Tutors…
counseling, all of that. But he’s just shutting down in front of me.”
She nodded slowly, like she understood the kind of pain that doesn’t show up in test scores.
When the meeting ended, Ms. Miller stood and offered her hand.
“Thank you for coming in. Now that we’re on the same page, and I understand what’s going on, I can do my part much better. We’ll get Kyle out of this, I promise.”
I reached out without thinking, still half in my head about my son crying in his room last night.
But the moment our hands touched, I went still.
There was a scar that crossed her palm — diagonal, jagged, and familiar.
My breath caught, and my thumb brushed it.
And I wasn’t in a school anymore.
I was back in 2006.
I was in the soup kitchen basement: the kind of place where the heat barely worked, and everything smelled like mildew and canned green beans.
I volunteered there twice a month, trying to find something to occupy myself with while I went through IVF.
She was there.
A teenage girl — sixteen, slumped in a folding chair, her face pale, one hand clutched to her chest. Blood was dripping between her fingers.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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