"Count your blessings." An admonition across generations to the point of cliche. It began simply enough; "Excuse me, sir; I think there's an envelope there with my name on it.". She spoke her name as I turned to help. I turned back, envelope in hand, a split second for memory to spin and stop. I introduced myself and started to ask the, "Are you...?" question when she interrupted with her version. This woman had been an eighth grader when I became the principal of her school---her final year there, my first. Thirty-two years ago. As we spoke past the platitudes, I found the thirteen-year-old in her eyes. She told me in some detail of the layered struggles she has battled on behalf of her son and his myriad physical and cognitive challenges. She conveyed no sadness, no anger; rather a focused acceptance and determination to provide for her son. We nodded and smiled at the perhaps not so random reunion, wished each other well, and I returned to my office counting my blessings.