I was halfway through writing an essay slogan on the board.
“Go ahead.”
The door opened.
“I'm sorry I was late. I'm Lily."
Someone knocked on my classroom door.
I turned around.
The marker slipped from my hand.
He had dark curls collected loosely back. Grey green eyes. A small wrinkle next to the left corner of the mouth.
Then, a strand of hair was placed behind the left ear.
Maggie used to do the exact same thing when she was nervous.
The marker slipped from my hand.
My blood was freezing. It was identical to Maggie.
Lily looked at the mark on the floor and then looked at me again.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
My voice sounded bad.
I squatted down and picked up the marker.
He looked exactly like Maggie.
“Yes. I'm sorry. You must be our student transferred.”
She nodded. “Lily.”
I found him a seat and finished the lesson by sheer muscle memory.
Every time I looked toward the third row, I felt bad.
It was worse than seeing a little girl like Maggie. Seeing Lily was like seeing how my daughter would look when she grew up.
Every time I looked toward the third row, I felt bad.
At lunchtime, I locked myself in a bathroom cubicle and cried heartbackly.
Then I washed my face and looked in the mirror.
“Lily is not Maggie,” I whispered.
A woman who was washing her hands two sinks away looked at me in a shake.
I pretended I hadn't said anything.
“Lily is not Maggie.”
That afternoon, I came home and I didn't say anything to Paul.
I waited until the next night.
“There’s a new girl in my second-hour class,” I said while we were having dinner.
Paul looked up. “Yes?”
“She looks like Maggie.”
His fork stopped.
“There’s a new girl in my second-hour class.”
It was only a second, but something changed on his face before the pain invaded him.
I immediately regretted saying it.
“Not exactly,” I added. I mean, obviously I don't know what Maggie would look like now. But this girl... God, Paul. He's got his eyes. And the same expression when you're thinking.
Paul left the fork.
“Please don’t do this.”
I immediately regretted saying it.
I looked at him.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re comparing any girl to our daughter.”
His voice did not denote anger. That almost made it harder.
