Something is wrong with my daughter's teacher

My daughter’s teacher kept calling her by the wrong name.

At first, I thought it was just an accident. Teachers have so many kids in their classes how can they be expected to remember every single name on the first week of school?

But it wasn’t the first week anymore.

It was October.

And still, every time I picked up my daughter after school, I’d hear her teacher chirp that same cheerful farewell.

“Goodbye, Emily.”

My daughter’s name isn’t Emily.

It’s Anna.

The first time it happened, Anna giggled. She thought it was funny, being mistaken for somebody else.

“Her name’s Anna,” I corrected with a smile, assuming the teacher just needed reminding.

“Oh, of course,” the teacher had said, laughing at her own mistake.

But then it happened again. And again.

By the second week, Anna’s smile had vanished. She looked embarrassed, glancing at me as if asking permission to speak up.

“My name is Anna,” she would whisper.

By the tenth time, she stopped saying anything at all. She just ducked her head and shuffled out of the classroom.

That bothered me more than the mistake itself—how quickly a child can give up on correcting an adult.

“Why does she keep calling you that?” I asked one night over dinner.

Anna twirled her fork in her spaghetti, shoulders rising and falling. “I don’t know.”

“Have you told her your real name?”

“Yes.”

“And what did she say?”

Anna paused, chewing slowly, avoiding my eyes. Then she muttered, “She just smiled.”

That smile stuck in my head all night.

The next morning, I decided to address it head-on.

The teacher was a young woman, mid-twenties maybe, with long blond hair and a cheerful voice that always seemed just a little too bright—like she was playing a role.

“I noticed you keep calling my daughter Emily,” I said as politely as possible, when Anna was busy hanging up her backpack.

The teacher’s smile froze for the briefest moment. Then she laughed lightly. “Oh. Do I? I’m so sorry.”

Her eyes flicked down to Anna, then back at me.

“I’ll make sure to fix that,” she promised.

But she didn’t fix it.

If anything, it got worse.

By Halloween, I had heard it a hundred times.

“Good morning, Emily.”

“Bye, Emily.”

“Don’t forget your homework, Emily.”

Always Emily.

It wasn’t just the greetings anymore. The name was written on Anna’s spelling tests. On her seat tag. Even on her drawing, the one she brought home of our house with three stick figures. At the bottom corner, in a childish scrawl, was the word: Emily.

“Why did you write that?” I asked.

Anna’s eyes widened, startled. “I didn’t.”

“But it’s your handwriting.”

She shook her head hard enough that her braid slapped her shoulder. “I didn’t write it.”

By November, I was furious.

I marched into the school office and demanded a meeting with the principal.

“She keeps calling my daughter by the wrong name,” I said, clutching the straps of my purse so tightly my knuckles ached. “I’ve told her repeatedly. Anna has told her. And still, she insists on calling her Emily.”

The principal, a heavyset man with glasses that slid down his nose, raised his hands in a calming gesture. “I’m sure it’s just a mistake. A misunderstanding. I’ll have a word with her.”

And for one blessed week, the mistake disappeared.

She called my daughter by her true name.

Anna seemed lighter. Happier. She hummed when she did her homework, smiled when she climbed into the car after school. For the first time in weeks, I thought maybe we were past it.

Until one Thursday afternoon.

I arrived early for pickup. I stood outside the classroom, waiting for the bell. Through the narrow pane of glass in the door, I saw the teacher lean down beside my daughter’s desk.

Her voice was soft, but clear enough through the door:

“Don’t you remember? Your name is Emily. You just forgot. But I’ll help you remember.”

My blood went cold.

I yanked the door open so hard it banged against the wall.

The teacher jumped. Her smile flickered, then hardened into something sharper.

“Mrs. Collins,” she said, too sweetly. “We were just—”

“Her name,” I hissed, “is Anna.”

The bell rang. Children spilled into the hallway like a flood, laughing and shouting. My daughter grabbed my hand so tightly her knuckles turned white.

We didn’t say a word until we were in the car.

“Mom,” Anna whispered, her voice trembling, “she keeps telling me I’m not Anna. That I used to be Emily. And… and sometimes…”

She trailed off.

“Sometimes what?” I pressed.

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Sometimes I think I remember.”

I barely slept that night.

I kept replaying her words. Sometimes I think I remember.

Remember what?

At 2 a.m., I crept into the attic. I dug through dusty boxes baby clothes, photo albums, hospital bracelets.

Every picture I found was labeled carefully in my handwriting. Anna’s first birthday. Anna’s first day of preschool.

But tucked between the pages of one photo album was something I didn’t remember ever writing.

A sticky note, yellowed with age. One word on it: Emily.

The next morning, I walked Anna into class myself. I kept my hand on her shoulder until she sat at her desk. The teacher looked up at me, that same bright smile plastered on her face.

“Good morning, Emily,” she said.

I lost it.

“Her name is ANNA,” I snapped. “You know that. Stop it.”

The smile slipped for the briefest second. Then she tilted her head. “You should check the file,” she said softly.

The file?

I stormed down to the office. The secretary looked startled when I demanded to see my daughter’s student records. She hesitated, then slid a folder across the counter.

I opened it.

Name: Emily Collins.

My hands went clammy. “This is wrong,” I said. “Her name is Anna. It’s always been Anna.”

The secretary frowned. “I don’t know what to tell you. This is the original registration form—signed by you.”

I stared down at the neat, careful handwriting. My handwriting. Emily Collins.

I couldn’t breathe.

That night, I tore the house apart.

Birth certificates. Hospital discharge papers. Old pediatric records.

Every single document said the same thing: Emily.

And yet, when I looked at my daughter, I saw Anna.

Her laugh. Her stubborn way of refusing vegetables. Her favorite stuffed rabbit, “Hoppy.”

I knew her. Didn’t I?

But the more I searched, the more holes opened up in my memory.

I remembered a hospital room. Machines beeping. A small body under a white sheet.

A funeral. A tiny coffin lowered into the ground.

But whose coffin was it?

When I picked up my daughter the next day, the teacher crouched beside her again.

My daughter’s voice floated across the room, hesitant but certain:

“My name is Emily.”

I opened my mouth to protest—but nothing came out.

Because suddenly, horribly, I remembered.

It wasn’t Anna who died when she was three.

It was Anna who lived.

Emily was the one I buried.

And yet here she was, looking up at me with wide, unblinking eyes.

“Come on, Mom,” she said, slipping her small hand into mine. “Let’s go home.”