“Sometimes it only takes one teacher to change everything — even if you can’t remember their name.”

There’s a woman out there — at least I like to believe there still is, retired now, hopefully living her best life somewhere with a cat, a glass of wine, and a stack of paperbacks — who changed my life forever.

And I cannot, for the life of me, remember her name.

I know. I’m a monster.

But hear me out. This woman — let’s call her Mrs. Life-Changer — was my fifth-grade teacher. Well, not exactly. I don’t know if they still do this or not, but back in the day, when you were in fifth grade, they swapped out the kids for a class or two. Nothing major, just I guess trying to get us used to moving between different classes and working with different teachers. She was the one who took over the English class. I remember she had dark brown hair, cut short, and when we all watched “Where the Red Fern Grows” in the lunchroom, both she and I cried. I liked her, and I genuinely believe she liked me too.

One day, she handed me a copy of White Fang by Jack London. Not a class assignment. Not for everyone. She handed it just to me.

“Here,” she said, “I think you’ll like this. When you’re done, write me a report.”

And just like that, I was chosen.
I don’t know how she knew I was a reader — maybe it was the way I hid library books inside my math workbook, or how I could quote Charlotte’s Web with unnecessary drama — but she saw something. She knew I could handle more than what the lesson plan offered.

So I read White Fang. I fell in love with the wild, with survival, with words that could bite and howl and make you shiver. I stayed up late reading under my blanket with a flashlight, feeling like Jack London himself had snuck me into a secret club.

When I turned in my report, Mrs. Life-Changer didn’t gush, coo, or anything like that. She just smiled that mysterious, knowing teacher smile — the kind that says, Yep. I was right about you.

And that was it.
No standing ovation. No gold star. Just a moment that stuck — the day someone handed me a book and said, I see what you can do. In a world that had, up until then, ignored me. I’m the youngest of nine.

Nine.

I’ve been lost in the shuffle since the day I was born, but I don’t mind. I keep myself entertained and, for the most part, out of trouble. I build worlds I want to live in, surrounded by people I know better than I know myself. But isn’t that the gift of the writer?

Over the years, teachers have come and gone. Not all of them were memorable, and not all of the memorable ones were positive. Through it all, my love of books has never faded. By the time I reached middle school, I had become a fixture in the library, the one place that made me happy. I must have read Watership Down a dozen times during sixth and seventh grade, and I started my own collection of paperbacks hidden deep under my bed and in drawers. Not all of them were appropriate, but that’s what made it exciting. I remember borrowing my sister’s book, Flowers in the Attic, by V.C. Andrews, and not being able to put it down. I couldn’t have been more than eleven. Sometimes it’s great having older siblings. 😊

Still, I wish I could remember my teacher’s name. I really do. But maybe it’s okay that I can’t, because what she gave me stuck deeper than a name ever could.

So here’s to you, Mrs. (Something).
You were right about me.

And I’m still reading—and writing.

Until next time, dip from your inkwell often,

Mira Wolfe Writes…