I wasn't looking for my first love — but when one of my students chose me for a holiday interview project,
I wasn't looking for my first love — but when one of my students chose me for a holiday interview project,
I learned he'd been searching for me for 40 years.
I'm a 62-year-old literature teacher. I don't expect surprises anymore — my life is predictable: school, books, tea, grading papers until midnight.
Then December came, and with it, my students' annual assignment:
"Interview an older adult about their most meaningful holiday memory."
Most kids chose grandparents or neighbors.
One student, Emily, asked if she could interview me instead.
I laughed. "My holiday memories are boring, sweetheart."
She insisted.
Halfway through the interview, she asked casually:
"Did you ever have a love story around Christmas? Someone special?"
I hadn't thought about him in years — not really.
His name was Daniel.
We were 17, inseparable, planning to run away together after graduation.
Then his family disappeared overnight after a financial scandal.
No goodbye.
No explanation.
Just gone.
I carried that unfinished sentence in my heart my entire adult life.
I told Emily a little — just enough for her assignment.
The next week, she came running into my classroom holding her phone.
"Mrs. Harper… I think I found him."
I froze.
Impossible.
But on her screen was a community forum post from a man searching for a girl he once loved:
"She had a blue coat and a chipped front tooth.
I've checked every school in the county for decades — no luck.
If anyone knows where she is, please help me before Christmas. I have something important to return to her."
Emily whispered:
"Mrs. Harper… he even posted a picture. Is this really you?
My heart stopped.
Because in that photo, it was Dan and me at seventeen — completely in love, frozen in a moment I thought the world had forgotten.
"Yes," I said, my voice trembling.
Emily looked up at me with wide, earnest eyes.
"Do you want me to write him something?" she asked softly. "Should I tell him where you are?" ⬇️
Full in the first c0mment
I Wasn’t Looking for My First Love – but When a Student Chose Me for a Holiday Interview Project, I Learned He’d Been Searching for Me for 40 Years
I’m a 62-year-old literature teacher who thought December would be the usual routine—until a student’s holiday interview question unearthed an old story I’d buried for decades. A week later, she burst into my classroom with her phone, and everything shifted.
I’m 62F, and I’ve been a high school literature teacher for almost four decades. My life has a rhythm: hall duty, Shakespeare, lukewarm tea, and essays that breed overnight.
December is usually my favorite month. Not because I expect miracles, but because even teenagers soften a little around the holidays.
Every year, right before winter break, I assign the same project:
“Interview an older adult about their most meaningful holiday memory.”
They groan. They complain. Then they come back with stories that make me remember why I chose this job.
This year, quiet little Emily waited after the bell and walked up to my desk.
“Miss Anne?” she said, holding the assignment sheet like it mattered. “Can I interview you?”
I laughed. “Oh honey, my holiday memories are boring. Interview your grandma. Or your neighbor. Or literally anyone who’s done something interesting.”
She didn’t flinch. “I want to interview you.”
“Why?” I asked.
She shrugged, but her eyes stayed steady. “Because you always make stories feel real.”
That landed somewhere tender.
So I sighed and nodded. “Fine. Tomorrow after school. But if you ask me about fruitcake, I’ll rant.”
She smiled. “Deal.”
The next afternoon, she sat across from me in the empty classroom with her notebook open, feet swinging under the chair.
She started easy.
“What were holidays like when you were a kid?”
I gave her the safe version: my mom’s terrible fruitcake, my dad blasting carols, the year our tree leaned like it was giving up.
Emily wrote fast, like she was collecting gold.
Then she hesitated, tapping her pencil.
“Can I ask something more personal?” she said.
I leaned back. “Within reason.”
She took a breath. “Did you ever have a love story around Christmas? Someone special?”
Gift baskets
That question hit an old bruise I’d spent decades avoiding.
Gift baskets
His name was Daniel.
Dan.
We were 17, inseparable, and stupidly brave in the way only teenagers can be. Two kids from unstable families making plans like we owned the future.
“California,” he used to say, like it was a promise. “Sunrises, ocean, you and me. We’ll start over.”
I would roll my eyes and smile, anyway. “With what money?”
He’d grin. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
Emily watched my face like she could see the past moving behind my eyes.
“You don’t have to answer,” she said quickly.
I swallowed. “No. It’s fine.”
So I told her the outline. The cleaned-up version.
“I did,” I said. “I loved someone when I was 17. His family disappeared overnight after a financial scandal. No goodbye. No explanation. He was just… gone.”
Family games
Emily’s eyebrows knit together. “Like he ghosted you?”
I almost laughed at the modern phrasing. Almost.
“Yes,” I said softly. “Like that.”
“What happened to you?” she asked.
I kept it light because that’s what adults do when they’re bleeding inside.
“I moved on,” I said. “Eventually.”
Emily’s pencil slowed. “That sounds really painful.”
I gave her my teacher smile. “It was a long time ago.”
She didn’t argue. She just wrote it down carefully, like she was trying not to hurt the paper.
When she left, I sat alone at my desk and stared at the empty chairs.
I went home, made tea, and graded essays like nothing had changed.
But something had. I felt it. Like a door had cracked open in a part of me I’d boarded up.
A week later, between third and fourth period, I was erasing the board when my classroom door flew open.
