You may not realize I exist. I am a shadow in the background, and our lives will never intertwine. While I won’t meet your children directly, I’ll hear their stories recounted by my husband, always vague and respectful of their privacy. He speaks of them as “that one kid who…” and “you remember the student who…” My husband dedicates his heart and soul to your children, investing his time and energy in ways you might not even conceive: ensuring they have writing tools, providing snacks, troubleshooting technology, and allowing them to step out for a moment when nature calls (you’d be surprised how often this basic courtesy is overlooked). He knows each child’s name and pronouns, and he even sacrifices his own lunch breaks to let students enjoy their meals in his classroom, where they engage with him in lively conversation. I know all this because I am the educator’s spouse.
When he comes home at four, he’s utterly spent, worn out by the demands of the day. He spends more time with your kids than with our own. His feet ache from the unforgiving concrete floors of the school — yes, they’re made of cement, and he stands on them all day. He walks an astonishing seven miles each day, solely within the confines of one classroom. As the educator’s wife, I rub his sore feet and fuss over his insoles and shoes, helping him pick out professional-looking sneakers. I wash his dress shirts so he can look sharp; I even give him compliments as he heads out the door, reminding him that he looks great — he needs that encouragement.
I make certain he has breakfast because without it, he gets irritable, and when he’s irritable, he can’t be at his best for your kids. When he’s too exhausted, I take our children to their sports practices. We end up dining out often, and chores like dishes and laundry go unattended, leaving him feeling guilty. I reassure him that it’s okay — he can only give so much, and all the kids — ours and yours — are what truly matter.
I listen patiently as he recaps his day. He shares experiences about your children, always mindful of their confidentiality. He carries their stories home with him, especially those of the ones who are struggling. “Do you know how many kids they’ve lost in their graduating class?” he asked me recently. “Six.” It wasn’t a large class. “To suicide?” I inquired. “No,” he replied. “For a variety of reasons.”
He talks about the simple acts of kindness: allowing a girl to use the restroom, handing out pens to students who need them, always having hair ties ready, brewing tea for his smallest class, and keeping cozy blankets for those who are often cold. Their gratitude for such small gestures of humanity is profound. I absorb this knowledge and share in the sorrow of those children who go without basic needs, neglected by others who don’t prioritize their humanity. I’m confronted by the depth of love my husband has for your kids.
I am immensely proud of the work he does for them. I often tell people, “My husband teaches English at Central High.” He once aspired to earn a Ph.D. and teach at a prestigious university, but I take greater pride in his current role. I celebrate each graduation day, and I mourn the students he’s lost over the years, standing by him through the tough moments. It’s part of my experience as the educator’s spouse.
You may never know me. I may never know your children’s names. But I love them too.
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