The suitcase stood by the door, zipped uplike the final touch before leaving. Emily nervously adjusted her belt, stealing quick glances at her sister and son. The hallway smelled faintly of dampness; outside, rain drizzled, and the caretaker swept heavy leaves to the curb. Emily didnt want to go, but explaining that to ten-year-old Jack was pointless. He stood silently, stubbornly staring at the floor. Catherine tried to stay cheerful, though her chest tightened insideJack would be living with her now.
“Itll be fine,” she said, forcing a smile. “Mum will be back soon. Well manage until then.”
Emily hugged her son tightly and quickly, as if hurrying to leave before she changed her mind. She nodded at her sister*you understand*. A minute later, the door closed behind her, leaving the flat in hollow silence. Jack stayed near the wall, clutching his old backpack. Catherine suddenly felt awkward: her nephew in her home, his things on the chair, his trainers beside her boots. Theyd never lived together for more than a few days.
“Come to the kitchen. The kettles just boiled,” she said.
Jack followed without a word. The kitchen was warm, mugs and a plate of toast on the table. Catherine poured tea for both of them, chatting about nothingthe weather, needing new wellies. He answered in monosyllables, his gaze drifting past hereither to the rain-streaked window or somewhere deep inside himself.
That evening, they unpacked his things together. Jack neatly folded his T-shirts into the drawer and stacked his exercise books beside his textbooks. Catherine noticed he avoided touching her old toysas if afraid to disturb the order of someone elses home. She decided not to push him to talk.
The first days were strained. Mornings passed in silence: Catherine reminded him about breakfast and checked his schoolbag. Jack ate slowly, barely looking up. Evenings were spent doing homework by the window or reading books from the school library. They rarely turned on the tellythe noise bothered them both.
Catherine knew it was hard for himnew routines, a strange flat. She caught herself thinking everything felt temporary, even the mugs on the table, as if waiting for someone else. But there was no time to hesitate: in two days, she had to file for temporary guardianship.
At the council office, the air smelled of paper and damp coats. The queue snaked past posters about benefits and allowances. Catherine carried a folder of documents: Emilys application, her own consent, copies of IDs, Jacks birth certificate. The clerk behind the glass spoke briskly:
“Youll need proof of the childs residence and consent from the other parent”
“There isnt one. I brought the birth certificate copy.”
“Still need official documentation”
She shuffled papers slowly; every remark sounded like disapproval. Catherine sensed suspicion behind the formalities. She explained againher sisters work contract, the travel itinerary. Finally, they accepted the application but warned: no decision for at least a week.
At home, Catherine hid her exhaustion. She took Jack to school herselfto explain things to his teacher. Kids jostled by the lockers. The teacher eyed them warily:
“Youre responsible for him now? Got the paperwork?”
Catherine handed over the documents. The woman studied them.
“Ill need to inform the head. And for all matters, we contact you?”
“Yes. His mums on a work rotation. Ive applied for temporary guardianship.”
The teacher nodded, indifferent.
“Just make sure he doesnt miss lessons.”
Jack listened stiffly, then left for class without a word. Catherine noticed he grew quieter at home, sometimes sitting by the window for hours. She tried to talkasking about friends or schoolwork. His replies were short, tired.
Days later, a call came from social services:
“Well visit to assess the living conditions.”
Catherine scrubbed the flat spotless; that evening, they dusted and tidied together. She suggested Jack pick a spot for his books.
“Doesnt matter. Its all going back anyway,” he muttered.
“Not necessarily. Arrange them how you like.”
He shrugged but moved them himself.
The social worker arrived punctually, phone ringing sharply in the hall.
“Yesyes, checking now”
Catherine showed her around. The woman asked about routines, school, meals. Then she turned to Jack:
“You happy here?”
He shrugged, gaze stubborn.
“He misses his mum. But we stick to a schedulehomework done, walks after school.”
The woman hummed.
“Any complaints?”
“None,” Catherine said firmly. “Call me directly with any concerns.”
That evening, Jack asked:
“What if Mum cant come back?”
Catherine stilled, then sat beside him.
“Well manage. I promise.”
He nodded faintly. Later, he helped slice bread for supper without being asked.
Next day, trouble at school. The teacher summoned Catherine:
“Your nephew fought with a boy from another class. Were not sure you can handle this.”
Her tone was icydistrust for a temporary guardian. Catherine bristled:
“Any concerns about Jacks behaviour, address them to me directly. The documents are in order. If he needs counselling or extra support, Ill arrange it. But dont judge our family.”
The teacher blinked, then nodded curtly:
“Fine. Well monitor his adjustment.”
Walking home, Catherine kept pace with Jack, wind tugging at their hoods. She was tired but certain nowthere was no turning back.
That night, she put the kettle on silently. Jack, unprompted, sliced the loaf neatly. The kitchen warmednot from the lamp but from the unspoken understanding that here, no one demanded explanations. Catherine noticed he didnt look away, even watching her sidelong, as if waiting. She simply smiled:
“Fancy your tea with lemon?”
He shrugged but held her gaze. Later, they dried dishes together, the tension between them easing.
Next morning, Jack spoke firstasking if they could stop for coloured pencils after school. Catherine agreed, heart lifting at this small step of trust.
At the shop, they picked pencils and a sketchbook. Home again, Jack drew intently at the table, then showed her his worka house with bright windows. Catherine pinned it on the fridge, wordlessly squeezing his shoulder. He didnt pull away.
Routines settled. Evenings were spent cookingsometimes pasta, sometimes beans on toast. Over meals, they talked about schooltests, funny moments. Jack no longer hid his books or stayed silent. When Emily called, he answered calmly, assured.
One morning, Jack boiled the kettle himself. Grey light seeped through the clouds; pavement gleamed from overnight rain. He asked suddenly:
“Have you always been an accountant?”
Catherine, surprised, shared stories about her job, her youth. Jack listened, laughing at tales of her old office. Over toast, they chatted easilyschool, football, plans for warmer days.
Leaving for school, Jack called:
“See you! Ill come straight home after.”
The words held a promisethis flat was his safe harbour now.
Later, Emily called from her shift. Jack chatted brightlynew friends, lessons. After, Emily whispered:
“Thank you. I worried most about him. Now I can breathe.”
Catherine replied simply:
“Were managing.”
Hanging up, she felt pridetheyd built trust where thered only been unease.
Days passed softly. Evenings were tea and bakery bread, plans for weekends. A glass on the windowsill sprouted green shootsJacks experiment with an onion. A small thing, but it meant everything.
One evening, he asked quietly:
“If Mum has to go away again youd take me, wouldnt you?”
Catherine met his eyes.
“Of course. We know we can manage.”
He nodded, never mentioning it againbut after, he sought her advice freely, even asking to invite a friend over.
Spring air freshened daily. Windows stayed open longer, letting in childrens laughter and the thump of a football.
One ordinary morning, breakfast at the kitchen table, Jack packed his bag briskly. Catherine checked his timetable without the old anxiety.
Life had settled into a steady rhythmsimple, vital for a child in flux. She knew now: theyd made it work not for paperwork or approval, but for that quiet trust between thembuilt step by step.
