The suitcase by the door was zipped uplike the final touch before leaving. Lucy fidgeted with her coat belt, stealing quick glances at her sister and son. The hallway smelled damp; outside, a light drizzle fell, and the caretaker was sweeping soggy leaves to the curb. Lucy didnt want to go, but explaining that to ten-year-old Jack was pointless. He stood silently, stubbornly staring at the floor. Emily tried to sound cheerful, though her chest felt tightnow Jack would be living with her.
“Itll be fine,” she said, forcing a smile. “Mum will be back soon. Well manage till then.”
Lucy hugged her son tightly and quickly, as if hurrying to leave before she changed her mind. Then she nodded at her sister*you understand*. A minute later, the door clicked shut behind her, leaving the flat in heavy silence. Jack stayed by the wall, clutching his worn backpack. Emily suddenly felt awkwardher nephew in her home, his clothes on the chair, his trainers next to her boots. Theyd never lived together for more than a weekend.
“Come to the kitchen. The kettles just boiled,” she said.
Jack followed without a word. The kitchen was warmmugs and a plate of bread sat on the table. Emily poured tea for both of them, chatting about nothingthe weather, how theyd need to buy new wellies soon. The boy gave one-word answers, his gaze drifting past hereither to the rain-streaked window or somewhere deep inside himself.
That evening, they unpacked his things. Jack neatly folded his T-shirts into the drawer and stacked his notebooks by his textbooks. Emily noticed he avoided touching her old childhood toyslike he was afraid of disturbing the order of someone elses home. She decided not to push conversation.
The first few days ran on effort. Mornings were quiet: Emily reminded him about breakfast and checked his schoolbag. Jack ate slowly, barely looking up. Evenings, he did homework by the window or read a library book. They rarely turned the t onthe noise grated on them both.
Emily knew the boy was strugglingnew routines, a strange flat. She caught herself thinking everything felt temporary, even the mugs on the table, as if waiting for someone else. But time wasnt on their side: in two days, shed have to file for temporary guardianship.
The council office smelled of paper and damp coats. The queue snaked past noticeboards about benefits and allowances. Emily gripped a folderLucys application, her own consent, copies of IDs, Jacks birth certificate. The clerk behind the glass spoke briskly:
“Well need proof of the childs address and consent from the other parent”
“There isnt one. I brought the birth certificate.”
“Still need official confirmation”
She leafed through the papers slowly; every remark sounded like an accusation. Emily felt the unspoken doubt. She explained againher sisters work contract, the travel itinerary. Finally, they accepted the applicationbut warned: no decision for at least a week.
At home, Emily hid her exhaustion. She walked Jack to school herselfto explain things to his teacher. Kids shoved past lockers in the corridor. The teacher eyed them warily:
“Youre his guardian now? Got the paperwork?”
Emily handed over the forms. The woman scrutinised them:
“Ill need to inform the head. And for all matters, we contact you?”
“Yes. His mums on a work rotation. Ive got temporary custody.”
The teacher nodded, indifferent:
“Just make sure he attends.”
Jack listened, tense, then walked to class without a word. Emily noticed hed grown quietersome evenings, hed sit by the window for ages. She tried to talkasked about friends or school. His replies were short; tiredness hummed beneath them.
Days later, social services called:
“Well visit to assess living conditions.”
Emily scrubbed the flat spotless; that evening, she and Jack dusted and tidied together. She suggested he pick a spot for his books.
“Doesnt matter. Its all going back anyway,” he muttered.
“Not necessarily. Arrange them how you like.”
He shruggedbut moved them himself.
The social worker arrived sharp. Her phone rang in the hall; she snapped, “Yes, yeschecking now.”
Emily showed her around. The woman asked about routines, school, meals. Then turned to Jack:
“You happy here?”
The boy shrugged, stubborn.
“He misses his mum. But we stick to a schedule. Homeworks done on time, we walk after school.”
The woman hmmed:
“Any complaints?”
“No,” Emily said firmly. “Call me directly if there are.”
That evening, Jack asked:
“What if Mum cant come back?”
Emily stilled, then sat beside him:
“Well manage. Promise.”
He was silent a long time, then nodded faintly. Later, he helped slice bread for supper without being asked.
Next day, a fight at school. The teacher called Emily in:
“Your nephew hit a boy from Year 5. Were not sure you can handle this.”
Her tone was icydistrust for an outsider with temporary rights. Emilys temper flared:
“Any concerns about Jack, raise them with me directly. The paperworks in order. If he needs counselling or extra support, Ill make it happen. But dont judge our family.”
The teacher blinked, then gave a curt nod:
“Fine. Well see how he adjusts.”
Walking home, Emily kept pace with Jack; wind tugged at their hoods. She was exhaustedbut now, certain: no turning back.
That night, she put the kettle on silently. Jack, unasked, sliced the bread neatly. The kitchen glowednot from the bulb, but from the quiet certainty they wouldnt be judged here. Emily noticed he wasnt avoiding her gazeeven watching her sidelong, as if waiting. She just smiled:
“Fancy tea with lemon?”
He shruggedbut held her eyes this time. Later, they dried dishes together, the tension between them easing.
Next morning, Jack spoke firstasked if they could stop for coloured pencils after school. At the gates, he glanced back before enteringa tiny sign he wasnt a stranger here anymore.
They bought pencils, a sketchpad. At home, Jack drew carefullythen showed her: a house with bright windows. Emily stuck it on the fridge, wordlessjust squeezed his shoulder. He didnt pull away. If he could draw a home, maybe hed let himself belong.
Routines settled quickly. Evenings, they cooked togethersometimes beans on toast, sometimes pasta. Over meals, they talked schoolgrades, funny moments. Jack stopped hiding his books; sometimes, hed ask for help with maths. When Lucy called, his voice stayed steadyhe knew shed return, and till then, he wasnt alone.
The social workers second visit was brief. Jack spoke proudly of his chores. The woman nodded:
“Well call if needed. All seems well.”
Relief washed over Emilyno more waiting for a knock with bad news.
One morning, Jack boiled the kettle before she woke. Over breakfast, he asked:
“Were you always an accountant?”
Surprised, Emily told him about her office, her youth. He listened, laughed at her stories. That day, he tied his laces himself, called, “See you later!”like a promise this was home for now.
Lucys next call was longer. Jack chatted easilyabout school, new mates. After, Lucy whispered:
“Thank you. I worried most about him. Feels lighter now.”
Emily just said:
“Were alright.”
Hanging up, she felt proudtheyd built trust where thered only been unease.
Nights now were tea and bakery bread, plans for weekends. A cup of sprouting onions sat on the sillJacks doing. A small thing, but it meant everything: new roots growing here.
One evening, he asked:
“If Mum has to go again Youd take me, right?”
Emily didnt hesitate:
“Course I would. We know we can manage.”
He noddedand after, sought her advice more freely, even asked to invite a friend over.
Spring air sharpened daily; puddles dried faster. Windows stayed open longer, letting in shouts and footballs from the street.
One ordinary morning, they breakfasted by the windowtea steaming, Jack packing his bag without fuss. Emily checked his timetable, no longer bracing for calls or forms.
Life had settled into rhythmsimple, steady. Not for paperwork or approval, but for the quiet trust between them, built step by step.
