Here, Savannah Turner still existed, even if the plaque on my desk read “Mrs. Mitchell.”
“Happy birthday, Mrs. Mitchell!” Sophia wrapped herself around my legs the moment I stepped inside, followed by a chorus of eight-year-old voices that had somehow uncovered my secret.
“How did you know?” I laughed.
“We’re detectives,” Michael announced, proudly holding up the classroom calendar where he’d circled today’s date in red marker. “And you told us last month!”
They’d used free reading time to make cards—twenty-eight glitter-covered pieces of construction paper filled with crooked hearts, misspelled love notes, and drawings of me with arms too long or legs too short.
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