The mother hesitated, glancing down at her son, who was still staring at the headstone with wide, innocent eyes. “Do you remember their names?” she asked him gently. The boy nodded eagerly.
“Ava and Mia. They sit in the front row in my class. My teacher, Miss Carson, she always calls their names.”
My knees went weak, and I felt myself sway slightly.
Miss Carson. The name echoed in the chambers of my memory like a forgotten melody. It was the name of the kindergarten teacher my daughters would have had.
Could this be some cruel coincidence? Could grief have manifested in such an uncanny, heart-rending way? But the boy’s insistence and sincerity tugged at something deep inside me, a place where hope and disbelief waged a silent war.
I needed to know more. I had to. “Would it be alright if I spoke with Miss Carson?” I asked, my voice a fragile thread.
The mother looked at me with both pity and caution, as if weighing the appropriateness of my request. “I think that would be okay,” she said finally. “I’ll talk to her.
What happened next changed everything…
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