The assembly hall felt vast, the rows of empty chairs mocking her. Sarah clutched the crumpled program in her hand, the paper a sodden mess from where she’d been wringing it. The Principal’s words, intended to be congratulatory, seemed to echo in the cavernous space, each syllable a jab. They were celebrating her retirement, a grand send-off, but all she felt was the burning shame of the incident from last week. She’d tripped, in front of the entire faculty, and her wig had flown across the room. Now, a hush fell over the room as a student stepped forward. He looked familiar. He approached with a nervous smile, holding a large, wrapped box.
“Mrs. Peterson?” he asked hesitantly.
She nodded, mortified that her trembling hands were visible to everyone.
“I…I wanted to give you this. It’s a small token of appreciation.” He placed the box in her lap, and with a clumsy bow, retreated. It was from the disruptive kid who always wore a backward baseball cap. The box felt heavy, and Sarah knew, with a sinking certainty, that this was going to make the whole thing worse. She peeled back the paper, revealing a framed photograph. It was a picture of her, mid-fall, wig askew, captured perfectly by a local news photographer.