So that was part of it. The other part, the part that’s stayed, was how it felt to teach, like I was opening a door. My first student was a little Puerto Rican girl named Concepción. She was seven, but she really couldn’t read at all. I spent two frustrating weeks with her, weeks where either she or I ended up in tears when we were done before I finally talked to Cal about it. I went to his office after our third meeting. “Cal, I think I need another student. Concepción and I just aren’t getting anywhere, and I don’t know what to do.”

He leaned back in his chair, appraising me. “So you’re giving up already?”

“I’m not giving up, but she’s trying so hard and I’m really confused. She’s just a little kid and I can’t help her.” Furious, I felt my own eyes fill with tears.

“Hey oh, hey …” Cal’s voice softened and he got out of his chair and came around the desk to sit on the front edge, closer to me. “I’ve been watching you with her, and I think you’re a really good teacher. You’re so patient. Why don’t we meet a few times and work on some things that might help her a little.” He paused, then said softly, “I’ve been watching you anyway.”

I looked up, wiping at my eyes. “You have?”

“I have.” He reached out and moved some stray hair behind my ear. His hand rested on my cheek for a moment. Does it sound ridiculous to say that that moment sealed all the rest? I suppose it does. But it did. He was right. I became a better teacher, a good teacher, and I loved it so much. And I loved him so much. When he said we should get married and move to Cleveland, of all places, and teach in the public schools, I followed without another thought. Everything was all tied together in my mind anyway, loving him and loving my students. The years went by, and I kept loving my students. But he didn’t let me keep loving him. Sometimes I still wonder what went wrong. You’d think I’d be more at peace with it by now. And I am, in part. But not altogether. I can still remember what his hair felt like under my hands.