The crinkling of the permission slip felt like the snap of a crisp, winning lottery ticket. Sarah smoothed it out, the cheap paper practically glowing in her hand. "Mrs. Gable?" she asked, a goofy grin plastered across her face as she addressed the school secretary. The woman confirmed it, and Sarah let out a small, delighted squeak. Her daughter, Lily, would be in the same fourth-grade class as her. The same *teacher*. A warm flush spread across her cheeks as she thought of Mrs. Gable, of her booming laugh and the way she made even fractions feel like a grand adventure.
That evening at dinner, Sarah regaled her husband with tales of her childhood classroom. She found herself embellishing certain memories, expanding on the classroom's whimsical decorations and Mrs. Gable's legendary patience. She punctuated the narrative with delighted gestures, her eyes sparkling. Lily, oblivious to her mother's internal state, munched on her peas.
"She was *amazing*," Sarah concluded, finally, her voice thick with something akin to reverence. "You'll just *love* her, Lily-bug." She reached across the table and squeezed her daughter’s hand, a sudden surge of warmth coursing through her.