My heart kind of stopped. My granddaughter, Lily, had gone to that school for fifth grade. That was back when things were tough for my daughter. I didn’t think anyone noticed the state of Lily’s things. I thought I was doing a good job hiding the stress.

The entry for Lily was simple. “Lily M., backpack strap, heavy-duty stitching, 11/04/2018.”

I remembered that day. I remembered Lily coming home and telling me that someone had fixed her bag when she left it in the locker room. I had been so busy with my own work that I just shrugged it off. I told her she must have been mistaken. I told her maybe it hadn’t been that broken to begin with.

I realized then that I had been so focused on my own pride that I ignored the kindness happening right in front of me. I had looked at Mr. Perkins as just a man with a mop. I never once considered that he saw everything.

I stood up. I didn’t mean to, but my legs just moved. I walked up to the podium. Sarah looked at me with those red-rimmed eyes.

“Did he ever say anything to you?” I asked. My voice sounded thin in the big room.

Sarah shook her head. “He told me he just wanted them to keep walking forward.”

I looked at the notebook in her hands. The pages were yellowed and worn. I realized he had kept this not for recognition, but because he cared. He kept track of them like they were his own.

I thought about all the times I complained about the floors being wet or the heat not working. I thought about how many times I walked past him without even asking how his day was.

I felt a weight in my chest that I don’t think is ever going to go away.

I looked back at the crowd. They were all waiting for me to say something, but I didn’t have a speech. I just felt small.

“He was the best of us,” I said. It sounded weak, but it was the only thing I could think of.

Sarah smiled a little bit then. It was a sad, tired smile.

“He really loved those kids,” she said.

The rest of the night was a blur. People came up to me and patted my shoulder, but I didn’t really hear them. I kept thinking about that backpack. I kept thinking about how many other things he fixed that I never even noticed.

I left the dinner early. I drove home in the dark. I kept seeing that line in the notebook in my head. Page forty-seven. It felt like a mirror.

I realized I hadn’t been the teacher I thought I was. I had been a bystander. I had been watching the world from a desk, and he had been out there in the hallways, actually building something.