I’m a 62-year-old literature teacher, and for nearly four decades my life has followed a comfortable rhythm—lesson plans, essays, quiet hallways, and warm tea gone cold before I remember to drink it. December usually brings a gentle softness to the classroom, and every year I assign the same project: interview an older adult about their most meaningful holiday memory. This year, a quiet student named Emily asked if she could interview me. I tried to deflect, insisting my memories were ordinary, but she looked at me steadily and said she wanted to hear my story because I made other people’s stories feel real. The next afternoon, sitting across from her in an empty classroom, she asked careful questions—about childhood holidays, family traditions—and then, gently, whether I had ever had a love story around Christmas. The q uestion opened a door I had kept closed for forty years. Continue reading…
