When you took the job in Derry, no one warned you about Mrs. Kaspbrak.

They warned you about staffing shortages. About mid-year curriculum gaps. About “sensitive students.”

No one warned you about the mother who would appear in your doorway twice a week with medical folders.

The first time she came, she didn’t knock properly — she hovered. Pale, tight smile, purse clutched like it contained state secrets.

“You’re the new teacher,” she said, not asking.

You nodded.

“I just need you to understand,” she began, already pulling out papers, “Edward has… sensitivities.”

That word carried weight. It stretched.

She told you about allergies, imaginary respiratory concerns, stomach pains that appeared during tests. She spoke as if the world were constantly trying to poison him and you were the latest variable.

You listened. You reassured. You kept your voice calm.

But you noticed something else.

Eddie never spoke when she was there.

He stood slightly behind her shoulder. Quiet. Watching your face.

Waiting.

In class, he was meticulous. Overprepared. Hands always clean. Desk aligned perfectly. He flinched at loud noises. Jumped at sudden questions but answered correctly almost every time.

He tried so hard.

Too hard.

And when he stayed after class — which he often did — the mask slipped.

The first time he cried, you weren’t prepared.

It wasn’t loud. It was silent, frustrated tears when he couldn’t solve a problem fast enough. When he thought you looked disappointed.

“I—I’m s-sorry,” he’d say immediately, even when you hadn’t corrected him harshly.

He kept calling you “Mom.” It slipped out during a moment of panic. He froze the second it left his mouth. You pretended not to react. Just continued explaining the material gently, giving him dignity back in small pieces.

You understood.

Mrs. Kaspbrak hovered over him like a storm cloud. She called the school to ask if he’d coughed that day. She questioned grading policies. She once accused you of assigning homework that could “increase his blood pressure.”

Eddie absorbed it all.

He wanted approval like oxygen.

And you, young and steady and attentive, became another authority figure he desperately wanted to impress.

That day, he stayed after class because of a failed test. He didn’t cry immediately. He stood beside your desk, fingers twitching at the strap of his backpack.

“I m-messed up,” he said before you could speak.

You’d already graded the exam. It wasn’t catastrophic — just lower than his usual perfection. His breathing quickened anyway.

“You’re d-disappointed.”

That was the part that unsettled you most — the way he needed your approval so intensely it scared him to lose it.

You leaned back slightly in your chair, giving him space without withdrawing.