At 62, I never expected to search for my first love. That chapter felt closed, safely stored among other youthful certainties time quietly dismantles. My life as a high school literature teacher moved in predictable rhythms—grading papers, monitoring hallways, quoting Shakespeare over lukewarm radiators. December arrived as usual: calm, routine, expected.
Then Emily, a quiet student, approached me after class. “Miss Anne, can I interview you?” she asked, holding the assignment sheet as if it mattered deeply. I laughed, deflecting her request. My stories were ordinary, I said—pick a grandparent, a neighbor, anyone else. She didn’t budge. “I want to interview you,” she insisted. “Because you make stories feel real.”
I agreed.
In the empty classroom, Emily asked about childhood holidays, family traditions. Safe answers first. Then she paused. “Can I ask something more personal? Did you ever have a love story around Christmas?”
I thought of Daniel. Dan—the boy I loved at 17, reckless and full of dreams, vanished one winter without explanation. I told Emily the story carefully, leaving out the heartbreak, giving her only the edited, adult version. She listened intently, writing with care. When she left, a small crack appeared in the wall I’d built around my heart.
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