Dear Mrs. Huchins
Dear Mrs. Hutchins, You likely don’t remember me. I was a student in your Earth Science class—just one face among dozens, sitting somewhere in the middle rows, probably looking far more certain of the world than any teenager had a right to. But I remember you. I remember the way you’d lean against the lab table when you wanted to make a point, and I remember, with startling clarity, a lesson you gave that had nothing to do with geology. You were talking about relationships. You said, with that gentle, matter‑of‑fact wisdom you always carried, that high school marriages almost never last. You mentioned the statistics, the emotional strain, the importance of becoming your own person before becoming half of a couple. I sat there, seventeen and stubborn as granite, and I knew you were wrong. I was so sure, in fact, that I came to you after class. I told you, with the unshakeable confidence of a girl who had all the answers, that you were mistaken. I told you I was marrying my best friend. ...
