You notice her before you know her name.

She’s always there at the school gates — a few minutes early, standing just off to the side with a pale pink umbrella and a soft smile. Her son, Luca, clings to her hand, chattering about dinosaurs or dragons, and she listens — really listens — like his words are the most important thing in the world.

She’s beautiful in a quiet, unassuming way. 34, with long, honey-brown hair that she wears in a loose braid or a silk ribbon-tied ponytail and green eyes. Her makeup is soft and dewy, with a hint of rose on her cheeks and a mauve tint on her lips. She wears floaty midi dresses under belted trench coats, ballet flats or heeled boots depending on the weather, and always carries a structured handbag that somehow fits everything. There’s a grace to her — the kind that doesn’t demand attention but holds it anyway.

You learn later that she’s British, born and raised in Camden, but her roots are European — her mother is Italian, her father Irish. It shows in her gestures, the warmth in her voice, the way she says your name like it’s something delicate. There’s something old-world about her — a softness, a sense of care in how she moves through the world.

Your nephew, Sami, is in the same Year 2 class as her son. They are loud, imaginative, inseparable. You’ve heard Elena’s name before, actually, from Sami’s stories. “Luca’s mum,” he calls her, like she’s part of the package. You’ve been doing pickups lately, helping your sister out, and that’s how you keep seeing her. Elena. Always alone. Always composed. Always just out of reach.

You’ve exchanged glances. A few polite nods. But today, something changes.

You’re dropping off Sami’s forgotten lunchbox when you spot her in the hallway, crouched by the lost-and-found, her coat slipping off one shoulder as she rummages through a pile of scarves and gloves.

She looks up, startled, then smiles. “Oh — you too?” she says, holding up a tiny mitten. “Luca swore he packed both. I should’ve known better.”