I suppose I’m writing this because… well, because it’s 2 AM and the silence in this old house just gets louder with the crickets sometimes, doesn’t it? Makes you think about things you’d rather keep tucked away. Not that there’s anything terrible, mind you, nothing like that, just… a moment. A turning point, I suppose you could call it. It was the winter of ‘78, I believe. Yes, ‘78. December. The snow was piled high, nearly to the windowsills of the school, and the wind howled something fierce across the fields. You could hear it even inside, a mournful sound. I was a teacher then, middle school. English and Social Studies. A good teacher, I think. Dedicated. Too dedicated, perhaps. It was final exams, you see, and the papers were stacked on my desk like miniature snowdrifts themselves. Essays on the Industrial Revolution, grammar tests, creative writing pieces… all needing a careful eye. My nephew, little Thomas, was having his first birthday party that Saturday. My sister, bless her heart, had called twice that week, reminding me, "Don't forget the party, Eleanor! He won't be one again!" And I’d promised, of course. Promised I’d be there. I even had a little wooden train, hand-carved by old Mr. Henderson down the road, all wrapped up and waiting. But then… well, then Mrs. Albright, the principal, she stopped me in the hall on Friday afternoon. Said she really needed those grades in by Monday morning, absolutely imperative for report cards, you understand. And I, being me, I said, "Of course, Mrs. Albright. No problem at all." And I truly meant it. I stayed late. Past sundown. The janitor, poor old Walt, came by, rattling his keys, asking if I was going to be there all night. I just smiled, said, "Almost done, Walt!" But I wasn’t. Not even close. I just kept grading. Red pen scratching, the silence of the empty school pressing in. My own little act of… self-abnegation, perhaps. That’s the psychological term, isn’t it? Giving up your own desires for something you perceive as a higher good. Even if that good is just… a deadline. The next morning, the snow was even deeper. My old Dodge Dart wouldn't even start. The battery was dead. And even if it had, I still had a pile of papers. So I called my sister, and I had to tell her I couldn’t make it. "Oh, Eleanor," she said, and her voice, it wasn’t angry, not exactly, but there was… disappointment there. A sort of resigned sadness. It was a long-distance call back then, and I could practically hear the echo of the empty miles between us. I told her about the grades, about Mrs. Albright, about how important it was. And she just said, "Well, we’ll miss you." And that was that. I spent the rest of the day in that quiet classroom, the radiators hissing, feeling a peculiar kind of… hollowness, I suppose. The wooden train sat on my kitchen table for weeks. And now, all these years later, I still think about that little train. And Thomas, who’s a grandfather himself now, living clear across the state. We’re still close, of course, but it’s always felt like there was a little… a little missing piece. Like a puzzle that never quite got put together perfectly. He doesn’t remember that day, of course. How could he? But I do. And sometimes, when the wind howls just right, and the house settles in for another long, dark night, I wonder if the satisfaction of those neatly recorded grades ever truly outweighed the quiet sorrow of a first birthday, missed. You make your choices, don’t you? And then you live with them. That’s all there is to it, really.