She was kneeling in the puddle. Her expensive gray skirt was soaked, and her leather shoes were ruined. She was holding a piece of thick yellow chalk, her face tight with concentration.

I didn’t think. I just pushed open my screen door and walked down the steps. My knees protested with every step, but I didn’t care.

“Who are you?” I asked again.

She stood up slowly, wiping her chalk-stained hands on a tissue from her purse. She looked at me, and her eyes were wet.

“You probably don’t remember me, Mrs. Vance,” she said. “My name is Sarah. Sarah Jennings.”

I stared at her. The name didn’t ring a bell. I had crossed thousands of children over thirty years.

“It was September of 1984,” she said softly. “My mother had packed her suitcase and left the night before. My dad was at work, and I had to walk to my first day of third grade all by myself. I was so scared I was shaking. I stood at your corner, and I couldn’t move.”

I felt a cold shiver go down my spine. A memory, small and sharp, began to form.

“I remember,” I whispered.

“You didn’t just cross me,” Sarah said, a tear finally spilling over her lashes. “You saw my mismatched socks. You saw that I hadn’t brushed my hair. You knelt down, and you drew a hopscotch grid just for me. You hopped with me, Mrs. Vance. In your uniform. You made the world feel safe when my whole life was falling apart.”

I looked down at the yellow grid on my wet sidewalk. The sun she had drawn was identical to the one I used to draw.

“I moved to Cleveland after college,” Sarah continued, her voice trembling. “I work at a law firm now.

But every year, on the first day of school, I drive back here before my shift starts. I wanted to make sure you knew that someone remembered. I wanted to make sure you knew you weren’t forgotten.”

I couldn’t speak. My throat was completely tight. I reached out and pulled her into a hug. She smelled of rain and expensive perfume, but underneath it, she was still the little girl with the mismatched socks.

We stood there on the wet sidewalk for a long time. Neighbors drove by, some of them slowing down to look at the old crossing guard and the young lawyer hugging in the rain, but I didn’t care.

“You ruined your skirt,” I said, laughing through my tears as we finally pulled apart.

“It’s just chalk,” she smiled, wiping her face. “It washes out.”

She had to get back to the city for a meeting, but she promised she would call me. She wrote her number on the back of a grocery receipt and handed it to me.