Here, Savannah Turner still existed, even if the plaque on my desk read “Mrs. Mitchell.”
“Happy birthday, Mrs. Mitchell!” Sophia wrapped herself around my legs the moment I stepped inside, followed by a chorus of eight-year-old voices that had somehow uncovered my secret.
“How did you know?” I laughed.
“We’re detectives,” Michael announced, proudly holding up the classroom calendar where he’d circled today’s date in red marker. “And you told us last month!”
They’d used free reading time to make cards—twenty-eight glitter-covered pieces of construction paper filled with crooked hearts, misspelled love notes, and drawings of me with arms too long or legs too short.
This was a kind of wealth Travis would never grasp—the kind you couldn’t invest, showcase, or discuss at a country club.
At lunch, while my students ran outside, I sat in the teachers’ lounge with Janet, picking at a three-dollar cafeteria salad that somehow tasted better than the overpriced appetizers at Travis’s favorite restaurants.
“Big birthday plans?” Janet asked.
“Dinner at Chateau Blanc,” I said, forcing enthusiasm.
“Ooh, fancy,” she replied, then raised an eyebrow. “Just you two?”
