I had been a preschool teacher for years. Some days were chaotic—tantrums, sticky hands, and endless questions—but I loved it.
“Miss Green! Tommy ate my crayon!” a voice shrieked.
I sighed, already heading over.
“Tommy, what did we say about eating art supplies?”
Tommy grinned, his mouth blue. “But it smells like blueberries!”
Some children were chatty, others expressed themselves through drawings. I noticed Lily’s quiet masterpiece, a “secret house.”
Later, I found a similar drawing in my childhood box: the same house. Why did I remember it?
At school, I asked Lily, “Where’s that house from?”
She replied, “It’s my Granny’s house.”
I was stunned. Could it be connected to my past?
That evening, I spoke to Lily’s mother, Anna, offering to take her to visit the house. The next day, I drove them there, my heart racing.
When we arrived, the house matched my drawing exactly—yellow roses, tire swing, everything. Lily rushed inside, and I froze.
A woman appeared, smiling warmly. Then, she saw me.
“Emma,” she whispered.
I couldn’t breathe. “Mom?”
She revealed the truth: she hadn’t died but had to leave to protect me from my abusive father. My heart ached with the weight of everything left unsaid.
Later, I learned my father was arrested, and my mother finally returned. We sat together, healing the years apart.
Lily grinned, “Now I have a real aunt.” I smiled, knowing the house was no longer just a memory. It was home.
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