I Wasn’t Looking for My First Love – but When a Student Chose Me for a Holiday Interview Project, I Learned He’d Been Searching for Me for 40 Years
As a 62-year-old literature teacher, I assumed December would be typical until a student’s Christmas interview question revealed a long-forgotten tale. Everything changed when she stormed into my classroom with her phone a week later.
I’m 62F, and I’ve been a high school literature teacher for about four decades. Hall duty, Shakespeare, lukewarm tea, and essays that sprout overnight are all parts of my rhythmic life.
“Interview an older adult about their most meaningful holiday memory.”
My favorite month is usually December. I don’t anticipate miracles, but even teenagers become a little softer during the holidays.
Every year, shortly before winter break, I assign the same project:
“Interview an older adult about their most meaningful holiday memory.”
They moan. They grumble. They then return with anecdotes that remind me of my motivation for choosing this position.
This year, Emily, a timid little girl, approached my desk after the bell rang.
Holding the assignment page as if it were important, she asked, “Miss Anne?” “Can I interview you?”
“I want to interview you.”
I chuckled. “Oh honey, my holiday memories are boring. Speak with your grandmother. Or your neighbor. or anyone who has actually accomplished something noteworthy.
She didn’t recoil. “I want to interview you.”
I questioned, “Why?”
Her eyes remained steady as she shrugged. “Because you always make stories feel real.”
That landed in a tender place.
“All right. Tomorrow after school.”
I nodded and sighed. “All right. After school tomorrow. But if you ask me about fruitcake, I’ll rant.”
She grinned. “Deal.”
She sat across from me in the deserted classroom the following afternoon, her feet swinging beneath the chair and her notebook open.
She got off to a simple start.
“What were holidays like when you were a kid?”
I gave her the safe version: my mom’s horrible fruitcake, my dad blasting carols, the year our tree leaned like it was giving up.
“Can I ask something more personal?”
Emily wrote swiftly, like she was accumulating gold.
She paused and tapped her pencil.
She asked, “Can I ask something more personal?”
I reclined. “Within reason.”
She inhaled. “Have you ever experienced a romantic tale around Christmas? Someone unique?”
I had been dodging the question for decades.
“You don’t have to answer.”
Daniel was his name.
Dan.
At the age of 17, we were inseparable and foolishly courageous in a way that only teenagers can be. Two children from precarious homes planning as if we were in charge of the future.
He used to exclaim, “California,” as if it were a pledge. “You and me, the ocean, and sunrises.” We’ll begin anew.”
In any case, I would smile and roll my eyes. “With what money?”
“I loved someone when I was 17.”
He would smile. “We’ll work things out. We consistently do.
Like she could see the past moving behind my eyes, Emily kept a close check on my face.
She said, “You don’t have to answer,” without pausing.
I took a swallow. “No. It’s fine.”
I then gave her the outline. The refined version.
“I did,” I said. “I was seventeen when I fell in love.” Overnight, his family vanished due to a financial scandal. No farewell. No justification. He simply vanished.
“I moved on.”
Emily furrowed her brows. “Like he ghosted you?”
The use of contemporary language nearly made me chuckle. Nearly.
“Yes,” I muttered. “Like that.”
She said, “What happened to you?”
Because that’s what adults do when they’re bleeding inside, I kept it light.
Saying, “I moved on,” “Eventually.”
“That sounds really painful.”
Emily’s pencil slowed. “That sounds really painful.”
I smiled at her like a teacher. “It was a long time ago.”
She didn’t dispute. She simply took care to write everything down, as if she didn’t want to damage the paper.
I sat by myself at my desk and gazed at the empty chairs after she went.
As if nothing had changed, I went home, made tea, and graded essays.
However, something had. I sensed it. A portion of me that I had walled up seems to have cracked open like a door.
“Emily. A million Daniels exist.
A week later, my classroom door burst open while I was erasing the board between third and fourth period.
With her phone in her hand and her cheeks flushed from the cold, Emily rushed in.
She gasped, “I think I found him, Miss Anne.”
I gave a blink. “Found who?”
She forcefully swallowed. “Daniel.”
My initial response was a quick, incredulous laugh. “Emily. A million Daniels exist.
My stomach dropped at the title.
“I am aware. But take a look.
She extended her phone. A post from a local community forum appeared on the screen.
My stomach dropped at the title.
“Searching for the girl I loved 40 years ago.”
As I read, my breath caught.
A picture was present.
She had a chipped front tooth and a blue coat. We were seventeen. The bravest person I know was her. I’ve searched every school in the county for decades since I know she wanted to be a teacher, but I’ve had no luck. Before Christmas, if anyone knows where she is, please let me know. I need to give her back something significant.”
In a whisper, Emily said, “Scroll down.”
A picture was present.
I was seventeen years old, wearing a blue coat, and my front tooth was chipped, as I was laughing. Dan slung his arm around my shoulders as if to shield me from everything.
“Do you want me to message him?”
My knees became weak. I took hold of a desk’s edge.
“Miss Anne,” Emily continued, her voice suddenly shaking, “is that you?”
I just managed to get it out. “Yes.”
The environment became too bright and noisy, as if my senses were having trouble processing reality.
Emily had enormous eyes. Would you like me to send him a message? Do I need to let him know where you are?
I parted my lips. Nothing was revealed.
“The last update was Sunday.”
So I tried to shrink it, like I usually have.
I remarked, “It might not be him,” “It could be old.”
I got a glance from Emily that said, “Please don’t lie to yourself.”
“Miss Anne,” she continued softly, “he makes weekly updates.” Sunday was the most recent update.
Sunday.
a few days prior.
Fear and hope were so intertwined that I was unable to separate them.
So he wasn’t thinking back. He continued to search.
Something stirred behind my ribs, fear and hope so tightly intertwined that I was unable to tell them apart.
Emily stood motionless, as if I would back off if she moved.
I finally let out a breath. “Okay.”
“Okay as in yes?”
“Yes,” I replied, trembling. “Message him.”
The speed at which your brain can revert to its youthful state is embarrassing.
Emily gave a professional nod.
Her words, “I’ll be careful,” “Public area. during the day. Limitations. Miss Anne, I won’t have you kidnapped.”
I laughed in spite of themselves. It was wet and wobbly.
Saying “thank you,” “Truly.”
I stood in front of my closet that evening as if it were a test I hadn’t prepared for.
The speed at which your brain can revert to its youthful state is embarrassing.
“You’re sixty-two. Act as though you are.
I displayed sweaters. rejected them. Return them. dragged them out once more.
“You are sixty-two,” I said as I looked at my hair in the mirror. Act as though you are.
In any case, I phoned my hairdresser.
Emily sneaked into my classroom the following day after the last bell, grinning conspiratorially.
Whispering, “He replied,” she said.
My heart leaped. “What did he say?”
Before I could be overcome by terror, I nodded.
She showed me the screen.
“Please let her know that I would like to see her if it is indeed her. I’ve been holding off for a while.
My throat constricted.
“Saturday?,” said Emily. Two o’clock? The parkside café?”
Before I could be overcome by terror, I nodded. “Yes. Saturday.”
After typing rapidly, she smiled. “Yes, he replied. He will be present.
What if the truth is not as beautiful as the past?
Saturday arrived far too quickly.
I put on a nice coat, a skirt, and a cozy sweater. not attempting to appear younger. I’m just trying to look my best.
My thoughts were nasty during the journey there.
What if I’m not recognized by him? What happens if I don’t recognize him? What if the truth is not as beautiful as the past?
The aroma of espresso and cinnamon filled the café. In the window, holiday lights blinked.
And I noticed him right away.
His eyes, however, remained the same.
table in the corner. Straighten your back. The hands were folded. He looked around the door as if he didn’t believe in luck.
His hair had turned silver. Time had silently etched creases on his face.
His eyes, however, remained the same.
Warm. Paying attention. A little naughty.
As soon as he saw me, he got up.
“Annie,” he said.
We merely looked at one another for a moment.
It had been decades since anyone had called me that.
“Dan,” I said.
We simply gazed at one another for a moment, caught between our former selves and our future selves.
He grinned broadly and with relief, as if something within of him had finally relaxed.
“I’m so glad you came,” he remarked. “You look wonderful.”
I needed to breathe, so I snorted. “That’s generous.”
“Why did you disappear?”
It sounded like a tune I knew when he laughed.
We took a seat. I shook my hands around the coffee cup. He saw, and acted as though he didn’t. That tiny act of kindness almost killed me.
We started by doing some safe catching up.
He said, “You’re a teacher?”
“Still,” I said. “Apparently, I can’t quit teenagers.”
He grinned. “I always knew you’d help kids.”
He clenched his jaw.
The stillness that I had been carrying for forty years then arrived.
I put down my cup.
“Dan,” I said, “why did you vanish?”
He clenched his jaw. Before turning back to face me, he glanced at the table.
“Because I was ashamed,” he explained.
“Of what?” Softer than my rage, I asked.
“I wrote a letter.”
“My father,” he remarked. “Taxes were not the only issue. He was robbing his staff members. those who had faith in him. My parents were terrified when it was revealed. We left before dawn after packing the house in a single night.
I tried to say, “And you didn’t tell me,” but my voice cracked.
“I wrote a letter,” he blurted out. “I got it. I’m positive I did. But I was unable to confront you. I assumed you would consider me to be a part of it. As if I were also unclean.
My throat constricted. “I wouldn’t have.”
His eyes were shiny as he nodded. “I know that now.”
“So I promised myself I’d build something clean.”
He inhaled.
“So I promised myself I’d build something clean,” he stated. “My personal funds. My personal life. I would then return and locate you.
“When?” I inquired.
“Twenty-five,” he put it. “That’s when I finally felt… worthy.”
“Worthy,” I said again, tasting the melancholy. “Dan, you didn’t have to earn me.”
He appeared to be about to argue, but he refrained.
“Every lead died.”
He said, “I tried to find you,” However, you were married. Your last name has changed. Each lead perished.
I glanced at my hands.
“I was heartbroken,” I freely acknowledged. “I ran into marriage like it was a life raft.”
Slowly, he nodded. “Mark.”
“Yes,” I said. “Mark.”
I didn’t give him a book. Only the truth.
“The kids are grown now.”
two children. a life that is useful. “The kids are grown now,” Mark observed as he sat me down at the kitchen table at forty. I can now spend time with the woman I’ve been in love with for a long time.”
Dan’s expression stiffened. “I’m sorry.”
I raised a shoulder. “I didn’t yell. I didn’t toss anything. I simply took it in.
As if I’d been taught to accept being abandoned in silence.
Dan’s gaze was fixed on his hands. His words, “I married too,” had a son. It was over. She was unfaithful. We got divorced.
Then I posed the most important query.
For a little while, two people with lives full of common harm sat there.
Then I posed the most important query.
“Why keep looking?” I muttered. “All these years?”
Dan didn’t think twice.
“Because we never got our chance,” he replied. “Because I never stopped loving you.”
I exhaled a breath that seemed to have been stuck inside of me since I was 17.
Then the post came back to me.
“You love me now?” Half-laughing through the pain, I asked. “At 62?”
“I’m 63,” he responded with a soft smile. “And yes.”
My eyes were burning. I detest sobbing in front of people, so I blinked quickly.
Then the post came back to me.
“The important thing,” I stated. “What did you need to return?”
Dan put something on the table after reaching inside his coat pocket.
“I found it during the move.”
A locket.
My locket.
the one that contained a picture of my folks. The one I mourned like a body after losing my senior year.
“I found it during the move,” he muttered. “You dropped it off at my house.” A box was used to pack it. I protected it. I promised myself that I would return it eventually.
Opening it made my fingers tremble.
“I couldn’t let it go.”
Unaffected by the passing of time, my parents grinned up at me.
It stung how tight my chest become.
Whispering, “I thought it was gone forever,”
He remarked, “I couldn’t let it go,”
While the world continued on around us, we sat in a peaceful area of the café.
Dan cleared his throat at last.
“I’m not giving up my job.”
“I don’t want to rush you,” he stated. However, will you give us an opportunity? Not to redo 17. only to see what remains for us at this time.”
My heart was racing.
I declared right away, “I’m not giving up my job,” as it seems to be who I am.
Relieved, Dan laughed. “I wouldn’t ask you to.”
I inhaled deeply.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m willing to try.”
I discovered Emily in her locker on Monday morning.
His expression softened. “Okay,” he muttered. “Okay.”
I discovered Emily in her locker on Monday morning.
She froze when she saw me. “Well?”
“It worked,” I declared.
She quickly put her hands to her mouth. “No way.”
I responded, “It did,” and my voice became husky. “Emily… thank you.”
“I just thought you deserved to know.”
Her eyes gleamed, but she shrugged. “I just thought you deserved to know.”
“You have to tell me everything!” she called over her shoulder as she left.
“Absolutely not,” I replied over the phone.
With a cackle, she vanished into the mob.
And I was sixty-two years old, standing in the hallway with a new type of optimism in my chest and my old locket in my pocket.
It’s not a fairy tale.
And I wanted to go through it for the first time in decades.
Not a second chance.
Only a door that I doubted would ever open again.
And I wanted to go through it for the first time in decades.
