My Son Died in a Car Accident at Nineteen – Five Years Later, a Little Boy with the Same Birthmark Under His Right Eye Walked into My Classroom

"Alright, friends, eyes on me," I called, clapping my hands twice. "Theo, would you like to sit by the window?"

He nodded, sliding into the seat. "Yes, ma'am."

The sound of his voice landed in my chest. Owen, age five, asking for apple juice at breakfast.

I kept busy: handing out papers, reading "The Very Hungry Caterpillar," and humming the clean-up song a little off-key. If I stopped moving, I might've started crying in front of five-year-olds, and I didn't know which would ruin me faster: their pity or the questions.

I kept busy.

But my mind kept snagging on Theo's every move: how he squinted at the goldfish bowl, how he quietly offered Olivia the last apple slice from his snack bag.

During circle time, I knelt beside him, my nerves frayed.

"Theo, who picks you up after school?"

He brightened. "My mom and dad! They're both coming today!"

"That's lovely, sweetheart. I look forward to meeting them."

I knelt beside him, my nerves frayed.

That day I stayed late under the excuse of organizing art supplies, but really, I was just waiting for pickup.

The aftercare room emptied. Theo stayed, humming to himself, studying the alphabet book just like Owen used to.

When the classroom door finally swung open, Theo leapt up, all toothy grin and awkward excitement.

"Mom!" he called, dropping his backpack and running straight into a woman's arms.

Oh God! That was Ivy. She was taller than I remembered, her hair pulled into a neat ponytail, her face a little older, but unmistakable.

Our eyes met.

Oh God! That was Ivy.