The PTA meeting felt like a furnace. Mrs. Gable. *Mrs. Gable.* Thirty years. Thirty years of inflicting…this. Sarah gripped the plastic chair until her knuckles whitened. The announcement hung in the air: Mrs. Gable, first grade. The same Mrs. Gable who'd made her eat paste, who'd told her she'd never amount to anything. Her chest felt constricted, as if a steel band were tightening around her ribs. She shot a look at the smiling principal, then back at the beaming faces of the other parents. They didn't *know*.
Her voice cracked as she spoke, "But…she…she hasn't changed the curriculum, has she? Is she still…?" The question died in her throat, a choked sob. The room spun slightly. She felt a burning sensation in her cheeks. The principal, oblivious, launched into a description of Mrs. Gable's “dedication.” Sarah wanted to scream. She wanted to bolt. She wanted to rewind time and stop herself from ever moving to this town.
The drive home was a blur. She slammed the car door with excessive force, the metallic clang echoing in the quiet suburban street. She couldn't breathe. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with her keys. Inside, she found her son, Timmy, happily drawing at the kitchen table. "Guess who my teacher is, Mom!" he chirped. Sarah closed her eyes.