Mrs. Hale remembered things.
Everything. The name of my third-grade teacher, my favorite dessert, the apartment I’d rented after college, even the date of my first promotion.
If I mentioned something once, she remembered it forever.
One year, I casually mentioned wanting a better job. Three weeks later, she called. “I heard a company downtown is hiring.”
She was right. It became the job that launched my career.
Another year, I got the flu. Nothing serious, yet somehow Mrs. Hale found out and called every day until I recovered.
Sometimes I wondered if she knew more about my life than I did.
Around year seven, I almost missed her birthday.
A project at work had exploded into a disaster, and I’d spent three straight days at the office. I called to apologize.
“I’m not sure I can make it.”
There was a pause.
“I understand,” Mrs. Hale said.
For some reason, the disappointment in her voice bothered me.
