At 7:15 a.m., I was already pulling into the Lincoln Elementary School parking lot, trading marble and precision espresso for poster board and burnt coffee, prepared by people who actually smiled at me. My third-grade classroom was a world apart: twenty-eight desks in varying states of disarray, walls covered in multiplication tables and crayon drawings of families, some with dogs that had too many legs.
Here, Savannah Turner still existed, although the nameplate on my desk said “Mrs. Mitchell”.
“Happy birthday, Mrs. Mitchell!” Sophia hugged my legs as soon as I walked in, followed by a chorus of voices from an eight-year-old girl who had somehow discovered my secret.
“How did you know?” I laughed.
“We’re detectives!” Michael announced, proudly holding up the classroom calendar where he had marked today’s date with a red marker. “And you told us about it last month!”
They had used their free reading time to make cards: twenty-eight pieces of construction paper covered with glitter and filled with crooked hearts, badly written love notes, and drawings of me with arms that were too long or legs that were too short.
This was a type of wealth that Travis would never attain: the kind of wealth that could not be invested, displayed, or discussed at a country club.
At lunchtime, while my students ran outside, I sat in the faculty lounge with Janet, savoring a three-dollar cafeteria salad that somehow tasted better than the overpriced appetizers from Travis’s favorite restaurants.
“Big birthday plans?” Janet asked.
—Dinner at the Château Blanc—I said, forcing enthusiasm.
“How elegant!” she replied, then raised an eyebrow. “Just the two of you?”
“Seventeen people from Travis’s firm,” I admitted. “The Washingtons might be shifting their portfolio.”
Janet’s expression changed to that gentle teacher’s look reserved for children who confidently give the wrong answer.
“It’s okay,” I said quickly. “Travis says birthdays are arbitrary constructs.”
As I repeated his words, I heard how empty they sounded under the fluorescent lights.
“Honey,” Janet said softly, “when was the last time Travis did something just for you? Without pulling strings. Without pretending. Just because you cared.”
I had no answer. The truth seemed too small and humiliating to say aloud. Every gift, every outing, every “romantic” dinner had been carefully tied to his career ambitions or his social advancement. The tennis bracelet he gave me last Christmas only appeared after Marcus’s wife pointed out my modest jewelry at the company gala. The weekend in the Hamptons revolved around a client’s daughter’s wedding. Even our anniversary dinner conveniently included two potential investors sitting “by chance” in the same restaurant.
That day, after school, I went home to get ready and deliberately chose a dress that Travis hadn’t approved of. It was red, knee-length; something he’d bought before we were married, when he chose clothes because they made him feel alive, not because they projected an image of his success.
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