Ms Kerry Graham

I stop them at the door to conduct my poll. “Lovely, should we have school cats?”

“Cats?”

“Cats. Meow.”

“At school?”

“Yes.”

“Why would we have cats at school?”

“Please tell me yes or no.”

I can promise you that not a single one of my reactions to their answer—no matter which one they picked—was calm or even-keeled.

And I can just about promise you that the poll will continue on Monday.

Never ever a baby bump, but absolutely a bag-of-books-to-donate-to-Little Free Library /ies.

Monday marked a decade since I bought my house.

I’m 42. For ten of those 42 years, I have lived here, in my own home, alone. This is a long time and a significant portion of my life—and it’s really quite bad ass, especially given how brutal several years were. I worried some might actually kill me.

But. Even if the last decade had been more peachy than painful, I’d still be a bad ass. I own my home and I live alone and I’ve done both for a decade and I love so much about this life and even though/when it is so so so hard, I am so fu***ng proud of myself.

I’m posting this today, Wednesday, because it took me two days to decide I deserve to say it outloud. Next time, I’m not going to wait.

In fact, I might even throw myself a party.

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Lovelies brought me bouquets today, and I couldn’t stop squealing.

Pretty soon, my Secret Novel won’t be a secret anymore.

Well if this isn’t the most fitting way to finish Teacher Appreciation Week.

Tonight’s sunset is beautiful in a way I’ve been praying to please see again soon. I’m on my deck—built within the last few years; I didn’t have it when I bought this house a decade ago, almost to the day, and into which you helped me move—and see someone pedaling by on the cross street below who, I think in the way he sits, reminds me of you.

Except you don’t look like that anymore, of course you don’t. The boy on the bike looks like what you used to look like, back when you were in high school, but not while I taught you. You probably looked like that sometime around the beginning of your senior year, when I was no longer your teacher and yet—always, of course—your teacher. When would I ever not be?

What do you look like now? You’re in your what, mid-twenties? Late twenties?! Oh, my gosh—it’s actually your birthday today! May 5th. Because of you, for almost 15 years, I smile at every mention of cingo de mayo. This day has always felt like the perfect one to be yours—something about the double 5s.

I’m smiling at how good it feels to remember how much I love you. Eager to wish you a happy birthday, I almost pull you up in my phone until remembering that my last text didn’t go through.

Then, somehow, I know.

I don’t know how. I just know that I know. My fingers poised to type your name in the search bar, finding proof of what I never want to be true, I think, “I don’t have to do this today. I can wait until it’s not his birthday.”

But because I already know, and waiting to confirm won’t change it—today, your birthday, turns out to be the day I’ve been afraid of this entire time—I look. Learn that, somehow, you’ve been gone since December 15, 2023.

We met when I was 28. Today, my lovely, you should have turned 29.

I love you, lovely. I’ll never have the right words, but thank god I always, of course have those.

“Lovely, well done on the work yesterday. Yours was the best out of everyone’s.”

She stares at me, so I stare back, and eventually say, “ . . . You heard me?”

“Yeah. Are you messing with me?”

“Girl what. Did you see your grade? It’s literally 100%.”

“Oh. Okay cool. Your voice is just so naturally sarcastic that I didn’t know if you was playin.”