Owen had one in the exact same place.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up. I grabbed the desk for balance. Glue sticks clattered to the floor.
“No harm done,” I said quickly when the children gasped.
But inside, everything had cracked open.
Theo’s voice later—soft and polite—felt like a memory from twenty years ago. I kept moving, kept teaching, because if I stopped I might collapse in front of twenty children.
When school ended, I lingered under the excuse of organizing supplies. I was really waiting.
The classroom door opened.
“Mom!” Theo shouted, racing into a woman’s arms.
I froze.
Ivy.
Older now, but unmistakable.
She saw me and her smile faltered.
“I know who you are,” she whispered. “Owen’s mom.”
The air thickened. Other parents stared.
We moved to the principal’s office.
“I need to ask you something,” I said, my voice steady but thin. “Is Theo… my grandson?”
Ivy looked up, eyes bright with tears.
“Yes.”
The word hit like lightning.
“He has Owen’s face,” I breathed.
