I teach adult education, helping people finish what life interrupted. My oldest student was 85, always early and trying. Her spelling was terrible. My coworkers said she’d never pass. Then I read her final essay and discovered why she came to class. It was the most beautiful reason, and it made me cry.I’m an English teacher at an adult education school. It’s the kind of place people come to when life got in the way the first time around. Some dropped out to work. Some had kids too young. Some just never had the chance.Over the years, I’ve taught hundreds of students. But there’s one I’ll never forget.Her name was Mrs. Danvers.

She was 85 years old. Always in thick glasses and a pink scarf draped over her shoulders. She was the oldest student I’d ever taught, and somehow the most consistent.Every morning, she was the first to arrive.”Good morning, Mrs. Danvers,” I’d say as she shuffled through the door.”Good morning, Miss Pamela,” she’d answer softly, then take her seat at the front desk. The one closest to mine.She never missed a class.Not once in eight months. Not for the weather. Not for doctor’s appointments. Not even when she caught a cold and showed up with tissues tucked under her arm.Her homework came on creased paper, written in tiny, shaky letters. I always graded hers the longest because I had to squint to read it.