The woman walking toward him was my son’s high school girlfriend.
Vanessa.
I hadn’t seen her since the funeral. Back then she was this quiet seventeen-year-old girl who sat in the second row holding tissues through the whole service while her mother rubbed her back. A few weeks later, they moved out of town and nobody heard from them again.
The second she recognized me, she stopped walking.
Noah kept tugging on her sleeve asking why she froze, and honestly I think that’s the only reason either of us kept standing there instead of running.
We ended up sitting on those tiny plastic chairs in my classroom while the janitor vacuumed the hallway outside.
That’s when she told me she found out she was pregnant two weeks after Mason died.
Her mother convinced her not to tell me because they thought losing a grandchild after losing my son would “finish me off.” Those were her exact words.
Vanessa said she almost contacted me dozens of times over the years but never knew how after waiting so long.
The strangest part wasn’t even the birthmark.
It was hearing Noah laugh while digging crayons out of my supply cabinet because for about ten seconds it sounded so much like Mason at that age that I had to turn away and pretend I was looking for paperwork.