I went still, counting back years I’d tried to survive.
My hand shot out to the desk for balance. The glue sticks clattered to the floor.
Ellie squealed, “Oh no, Ms. Rose. The glue!”
I forced a smile. “No harm done, honey.”
I glanced at Theo again, searching his face for any sign: anything to tell me that was just a coincidence. But he just blinked up at me, tilting his head the way Owen used to when he was listening closely.
“Oh no, Ms. Rose. The glue!”
“Alright, friends, eyes on me,” I called, clapping my hands twice. “Theo, would you like to sit by the window?”
He nodded, sliding into the seat. “Yes, ma’am.”
The sound of his voice landed in my chest. Owen, age five, asking for apple juice at breakfast.
I kept busy: handing out papers, reading “The Very Hungry Caterpillar,” and humming the clean-up song a little off-key. If I stopped moving, I might’ve started crying in front of five-year-olds, and I didn’t know which would ruin me faster: their pity or the questions.
I kept busy.
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