"Don't worry, I'll let him know..."

My mom died on April 28th.

I was out of my classroom for a week. The day I returned I sat down in front of my students, all waiting on the carpet for me, faces carefully neutral so as not to offend with their excitement at my return.

A smile slowly crept onto my face as I looked around at twenty-one glowing, happy children. All I could manage was a, "Hi guys," before my throat constricted.

My students knew. And that was it. No further conversation was necessary.



Today, just like every other day since the beginning of the year, a student asked me how old I am.

The student in question sits at a desk that is within touching distance to my projector cart, which I sit at more than my own desk. We often chat during work time because he is so conveniently close.

Today, just like every other day since the beginning of the year, I told him I wasn't telling. This is my normal response. That, or stating that I am 65-90 years old. They interchange, depending on my mood.

The student continued, "Okay, well you should have your mom come to class so I can ask her." He put a triumphant emphasis on the final word.

It felt like a water balloon burst inside my chest, raining ice cold water down and down, into my stomach, down to my very toes. My pencil paused mid-word. I looked up. He was smiling a big, toothy grin.

The student that sits next to him, the resident nonfiction know-it-all, looked up just as I did. Our eyes locked. His face was serious, a face much older than that of a 10-year-old.

Without missing a beat, his hand outstretched as if to ward off my response, he said "Don't worry, I'll let him know."

He leaned forward and whispered something to the Triumphant One.

I stood up and walked away, feigning a purpose, needing to move away, searching for composure on my cluttered desk.

Later on, Triumphant One sheepishly asked me if he could ask my dad instead.