On her wedding day, Ellie was radiant.
Her dress shimmered in the afternoon sun; her smile was soft but sure. When she entered the church, all eyes turned to her.
But she looked only at me.
As I offered my arm, she took it without hesitation. Her fingers curled around my sleeve, just like she had so many times before, when the world had felt too heavy.
“I love you, Mr. B,” she whispered, eyes shining.
I’d told her a million times to call me something else, but she found comfort in that name, and I’d long since stopped correcting her.
“I love you too, kiddo,” I said, leaning down to kiss her head.
We walked down the aisle slowly, step by step — not as teacher and student, but as family.
And in that moment, I realized: I hadn’t saved her all those years ago.
She had saved me too.
