My daughter is 10. Not long ago, a new teacher showed up at her school — Miss Jackson. All the kids loved her, and so did my Alice. She was young, vibrant, with a laugh that echoed down the hall. Alice would come home buzzing, telling me about Miss Jackson’s amazing stories, her cool experiments, how she understood them. It was a relief, honestly, to see Alice so happy with a teacher. Recently, right before I went to pick her up, I bumped into one of the other moms, Karen. We talked, mostly about the usual school gossip. Karen was saying how she thought Miss Jackson looked so familiar. Isn’t it strange when that happens? she mused, adjusting her bag. “Like you know them from somewhere, but you just can’t place it.” I shrugged, agreeing politely. Miss Jackson was pretty, sure, but I didn’t recognize her. Not then.
But Karen’s words stuck. Later that week, I saw Miss Jackson at the school fair. She was helping Alice paint a glittery sign. Her dark hair, cut short, framed a face that, yes, did stir a ghost of a memory. Her eyes, though. Her eyes held a warmth that felt… achingly familiar. A lump formed in my throat, unexpected. No, it’s nothing. I told myself. Just an emotional day.
Then Alice started talking about Miss Jackson’s family. “She has no siblings, Mom,” Alice announced one night at dinner, matter-of-factly. “And her mom passed away when she was little, just like mine did.” My fork clattered against the plate. Alice’s other mother, my husband’s first wife, had died young. The coincidence felt like a cold whisper down my spine.
I started watching Miss Jackson. Observing. I’d linger a moment longer at drop-off, or pretend to check my phone at pick-up, just to catch a glimpse. Her laugh, her gestures, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear. It can’t be. My heart started to race every time I saw her. I felt a desperate, gnawing fear.
One afternoon, I was volunteering in the library. Miss Jackson was there, sorting books. A box slipped, and a small, worn photo album tumbled out. It fell open on the floor. I knelt to help her. And that’s when I saw it. A picture. A baby, just days old, wrapped in a blanket. And behind the baby, a younger version of Miss Jackson. In the background, partially visible on a wall, was a faded, familiar wallpaper. The wallpaper from my childhood nursery.
My blood ran cold. My breath hitched. I scrambled away, mumbling an excuse, my hands shaking. I barely remember driving home. My mind raced, trying to find a logical explanation. It’s a coincidence. It HAS to be a coincidence. But deep down, I knew. I remembered the secret I’d buried so deeply, so painfully, a secret I swore I’d take to my grave. The baby I’d had in college. The baby I was forced to give up for adoption.
That night, after Alice was asleep, I found my old shoebox, hidden away for decades. Inside, among yellowed letters and dried flowers, was a tiny, faded picture. A picture of me, young and terrified, holding a newborn. And then, I saw it. The tiny, unmistakable birthmark on the baby’s wrist. The same birthmark I had just seen on Miss Jackson’s wrist when she reached for the falling album.
MY GOD. IT’S HER. Miss Jackson isn’t just Alice’s teacher. She’s my first daughter. Alice’s older sister. And Alice has no idea. My husband has no idea. And I have no idea how long she’s known, or why she’s here.
