Your, um, daughter?

I took a group of my 8th grade girls to visit a Catholic college-prep girls' only school. Most people come with their daughters, but my girls' parents were unable to attend because of work.
After sending the girls to the gym for their student presentation, I made my way to the library for the parent information session.

Here's the problem: I'm 27. I was 14 when most of my girls were born. I look my age.

Every time a presenter mentioned something about "your daughters," I got funny looks. Their thoughts were almost audible: "Is she really a parent of an 8th grade girl?" "Does she just look really young? How does she do that?" I was ready to market my own line of wrinkle-reducing potions when the other leader of my group, an alumnus of the school, stood up and introduced herself.

She mentioned that she and another teacher had brought a group of students. I was sitting across the room from her, and made no move to identify myself, but there was an instant sigh of relief as heads whipped around, frantic eyes zeroing in on me, tentative smiles begging for confirmation that I was, in fact, that other teacher and not a parent.

Prejudice? No, not here! Never!