The school hallways, once a battleground of awkward adolescence, now felt like enemy territory. My stomach churned, a familiar feeling from thirty years ago, as I stared at the name on the classroom door: Mrs. Crabtree. My daughter, Lily, skipped ahead, oblivious. I, however, was replaying every cruel comment, every humiliating moment, every detention Mrs. Crabtree had ever assigned me.
A tight smile plastered on my face, I feigned enthusiasm as I introduced myself. "So thrilled Lily has you," I chirped. Mrs. Crabtree, older but still imposing, barely glanced up from her desk. Her eyes, those cold, calculating eyes, met mine for a fleeting second, and I felt a chill run down my spine.
Later that week, I started "helping" with Lily's homework, subtly guiding her towards the subjects Mrs. Crabtree seemed to favour. My voice, usually patient, sharpened whenever a mistake was made, not Lily's, but the teacher's potential misunderstanding of my daughter.
I made sure to be the overly involved parent, always present at school events, always volunteering. I knew Mrs. Crabtree would be forced to interact with me, to acknowledge my presence, to remember. Each forced smile from the teacher fueled my secret pleasure.