Dear Charlotte,

I writing to you because I’m rumbling with regret

It all started with a mistaken identity in the supermarket the other day

You see,

A sweet, adorable, little girl thought I was her teacher

She shouted the teacher’s name, with confidence I might add

Right in the middle of the milk aisle

Of course, I ignored her thinking the exuberant greeting was for another lady

And so, I carried on with my shopping list

It was then that I felt two eyes bore into the back of my head

And as I turned around, I saw a sweet, little girl

Wearing a white summer dress, standing there staring at me

For what seemed like an eternity

Like an unspoken truth between us, that pierced my soul

Slowly she realised that I wasn’t Miss _______ (fill in the blank)

Suddenly, her excitement turned to disappointment

Because I wasn’t that someone she thought she knew

I wasn’t a person she knew at all

I was someone other than her beloved teacher

This is why I’m rumbling with regret

Because I thought of you, dear Charlotte in that moment

And the dull ache of regret throbbed into the recesses of my soul, yet again

I thought of the moment you realised, that I wasn’t the person you thought I was

I was someone other than your friend

I thought of the disappointment that you must have felt, when I didn’t show up

Time and time again

Let down by broken promises that break as easily as pie crusts

It’s all on me, dear Charlotte

Because I chose the school I wanted to attend every week, as part of my Year 9 course

I chose to participate in your classroom activities

From the moment, I stepped into the classroom as the teacher’s assistant

You, dear Charlotte, connected with me

Remember when we sketched drawings together?

Made Christmas decorations together?

Remember when you held my hand all the way through recess in the playground?

And when I came to your school, you clung to me like I was your new best friend?

I’m sorry, dear Charlotte

I was a silly teenage girl, who was so consumed with her own problems

And disappointments, that I didn’t realise how much of an impact I had made on you

Until your teacher phoned my school and asked where I was each week

Because yourself and your friends were waiting for me to come back

So, you could give me your Christmas present that you’d made for me

(Ouch!)

Dear Charlotte,

I’m rumbling with regret

But, if there’s one thing I’ve learnt with age

It’s that we choose our own endings to our stories

Brene Brown says it best, “Showing up is our power. Story is our way home.”

I’ve had to learn that truth the hard way

You, dear Charlotte

Are one of the reasons why I write children’s stories

Because stories help us find our way home

This is why God has helped me understand the influence I carry, as a writer

To learn to be a good steward of the gift He has given me

And to use what’s on my heart for His Glory

God knew me, the rebel teenager all those years ago

And He knew you, dear Charlotte, the little girl who needed someone to look up to

I hope, dear Charlotte, that you will forgive me

Because you have taught me, it’s in the showing up that truly matters

It’s in the showing up that we build our stories

And I hope and pray, that in your story, dear Charlotte

You have found your way home

Wendy xo