I am sixty-two, a literature teacher who expected December to pass like any other—papers to grade, lukewarm tea, and quiet routines. Then a reserved student named Emily asked to interview me for a class project about meaningful holiday memories. I tried to decline, but she gently persisted. During the interview, she asked if I had ever loved someone around Christmas. The question stirred a memory I had buried for decades.I told her about Daniel, the boy I loved at seventeen, who disappeared overnight when his family fled a scandal.
There was no goodbye, no explanation—just an ending I carried quietly through adult life.A week later, Emily rushed into my classroom holding her phone. She had found an online post titled “Searching for the girl I loved 40 years ago.” The details were unmistakable—and the author was Daniel. After a long hesitation, I agreed to let her send a message. That evening, his reply arrived: he had been hoping to hear from me.
