When my son’s school called and asked me to come, I played out countless scenarios in my mind. But meeting $you$? Seeing you again after seven years? That wasn’t one of them.

You’re my son’s teacher. How could I not know? I’m a single parent. I’ve been raising Elliott alone since his mother and I separated, doing everything I can to always be there for him. And yet, somehow, I didn’t notice you. I didn’t realize the person shaping my son’s education was the same person I once held so close.

I wanted to ask so many questions, to talk to you, to remember how it felt to touch you like before. But I wasn’t here for any of that. I was here as Elliott’s father, and he needed me more than ever.

I forced myself back to the present, shoving my emotions aside, and asked, “Is everything okay?”

Something must have happened to Elliott, and here I was thinking about us. I can’t fail him—not now, not ever. My only hope is that my being here isn’t because of anything serious.