My second year in college had started. I hadn’t decided whether to fly home for Thanksgiving yet. Although I had missed the holiday the year before, I didn’t have the money for the ticket, plus I wasn’t sure I could get enough time off from my part-time job.

All that wondering changed when my mom called. She got right to the point: “Your grandmother isn’t doing well. Your dad and I decided you should fly out there for Thanksgiving. We thought you would want to come along so I covered your ticket. We’ll fly from Alabama, and you can fly from Minnesota. We will meet in Northern Califomia the afternoon before Thanksgiving. Your dad and the younger kids will join us shortly later.”

I met her at the Oakland airport, and we took a taxi to our hotel. When we got in the door, Mom called my grandpa, “We would like to come over and enjoy this Thanksgiving together, Dad.” Mom was anxious to see her parents, especially her mother, who was really fragile. When we finally got to their house, we got to say hello and then Grandpa helped Grandma lie down again and led us to the living room, telling us we would eat Thanksgiving dinner at noon. Then he went into the kitchen.

Soon Dad, my brother Peer and my sister Mary arrived, joining us. Mom paced the floor. Finally, I asked her what the matter was. “He can’t cook,” she murmured. “How’s he supposed to fix a Thanksgiving meal for us?” I tried to reason with her. “Can’t you smell the dinner? Grandma is upstairs resting. Grandpa is the only one who could be cooking.” But we couldn’t see through the kitchen door.

She had an idea. “Let’s sneak out of the front door and see what’s going on. Then we will know how Grandpa is really cooking.”

I followed her around the house to the kitchen windows.

Seeing the cut on Grandpa’s finger through the windows, Mom hurriedly pushed open the kitchen door.

It was a cool evening in spring. I was just finishing the dinner dishes when the phone rang. It was unusual because our landline seldom rang. Nearly everyone we knew contacted us on our cell phones.

“This is Janet Rhodes.” said a familiar voice that I struggled to place. That name seemed familiar, too. I knew a lot of people, having lived on two coasts and in most major cities in California for the past thirty years.

“I am calling because I need to apologize to you,” Janet stated. That’s when I suddenly realized who she was.

“That day when I came into your classroom and chewed you out for disciplining my daughter, I was way out of line. I know now that you were doing what was best for her. You were right.”

Twenty years earlier, it was only my second year of teaching. Janet’s daughter, Stephanie, had acted out toward some of the other girls in the classroom, and I had made her stay in from breaks between classes. I was kind and fair when I punished her. The truth is that I really liked Stephanie, but she clearly didn’t like being disciplined. She told her mother, and Janet felt the need to defend her child.

After school, she flew into my classroom and accused me of everything from being unfair to playing favorites to not caring about my students. She was yelling so loudly that every teacher in the building heard her accusations, including my principal.

Her words shocked me because none of her criticisms was true. I managed to keep from crying while she stood in front of me, but as soon as she left the room, I broke down. I cried all evening on and off through that sleepless night. I had once felt such joy teaching my kids, but now I felt like I was under a microscope in my classroom. For the next few weeks, her words caused me to second-guess everything I did with my students. I doubted my ability and even my own heart. Despite how her mother had treated me, I knew I would discipline Stephanie again if she acted out. It was the right thing to do.

And now, two decades later, the angry mother was apologizing to me.

“Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?” Janet asked finally.