**A Family for Now**
The suitcase stood by the door, zipped up tightlike the final touch before leaving. Emily nervously adjusted her belt, stealing quick glances at her sister and son. The hallway smelled faintly of damp; outside, rain drizzled, and the caretaker swept soggy leaves to the curb. Emily didnt want to go, but explaining that to ten-year-old Harry was pointless. He stood silent, stubbornly staring at the floor. Margaret forced a cheerful tone, though her chest tightenedHarry would be living with her now.
“Itll be alright,” she said, mustering a smile. “Mum will be back soon. Well manage just fine till then.”
Emily hugged her son tightly and quickly, as if rushing to leave before she changed her mind. Then she nodded at her sister*you understand*. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the flat in heavy silence. Harry stayed rooted by the wall, clutching his old backpack. Margaret suddenly felt awkwardher nephew in her home, his belongings on a chair, his trainers beside her boots. Theyd never lived together longer than a weekend.
“Come to the kitchen. The kettles just boiled,” she said.
Harry followed without a word. The kitchen was warm, mugs and a plate of toast on the table. Margaret poured tea, chatting about the rain, how theyd need new wellies. The boy answered in monosyllables, his gaze distanteither at the rain-streaked window or somewhere deep inside himself.
That evening, they unpacked his things. Harry neatly folded T-shirts into the dresser and stacked his exercise books by his school texts. Margaret noticed he avoided touching her childhood toysas if afraid to disturb the order of someone elses house. She didnt push for conversation.
The first days were strained. Mornings passed in silence: Margaret reminded him about breakfast and checked his schoolbag. Harry ate slowly, barely looking up. Evenings, he did homework by the window or read library books. They rarely turned on the tellythe noise grated on them both.
Margaret knew he struggled with the new routine, the unfamiliar flat. She caught herself treating everything as temporaryeven the mugs on the table seemed to wait for someone else. But there was no time to hesitate: in two days, shed need to file for temporary guardianship.
At the council office, the air smelled of paper and damp coats. The queue wound past notices about benefits. Margaret clutched a folder of documents: Emilys application, her own consent, copies of IDs, Harrys 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 certificate.”
“Still need official documentation”
She leafed through the papers slowly; every remark felt like an accusation. Margaret sensed suspicion beneath the formal tone. She explained againher sisters work contract, the travel roster. Finally, the application was accepted, but the decision would take a week.
At home, Margaret hid her weariness. She walked Harry to school herself, speaking to his teacher about the arrangement. Kids jostled at the lockers. The teacher eyed her warily:
“Youre his guardian now? Have you got the paperwork?”
Margaret handed over the forms. The woman scrutinised them.
“Ill need to inform the head. And for all matters, we contact you?”
“Yes. His mums away for work. Ive temporary custody.”
The teacher nodded, unsympathetic.
“Just ensure he attends.”
Harry listened stiffly, then slipped into class without a word. At home, he grew quieter, sometimes staring out the window for hours. Margaret tried to talkasking about friends or lessons. His replies were short, tired.
Days later, child protection phoned:
“Well visit to assess living conditions.”
Margaret scrubbed the flat spotless; that evening, they dusted and tidied together. She let Harry choose where to keep his books.
“Doesnt matter later,” he muttered.
“It does. Arrange them how you like.”
He shrugged but rearranged them anyway.
The social worker arrived, phone buzzing. She snapped answers, then toured the rooms, questioning Harry about meals and school.
“You happy here?”
He shrugged, jaw set.
“He misses his mum,” Margaret cut in. “But we stick to routine. Homeworks done on time, he plays after school.”
The woman hummed. “Any complaints?”
“No,” Margaret said firmly. “Call me directly if there are.”
That night, Harry asked:
“What if Mum cant come back?”
Margaret stilled, then sat beside him.
“Well manage. I promise.”
He nodded faintly. Later, he helped slice bread for supper without being asked.
Next day, a scuffle at school. The teacher summoned Margaret:
“Your nephew fought a boy from Year Five. Were concerned about stability.”
Her tone was icydistrust for an outsider with temporary rights. Margaret bristled:
“Discuss his behaviour with me directly. The paperworks in order. If he needs counselling or extra help, Ill arrange it. But dont presume to judge our family.”
The teacher blinked, then nodded curtly.
Walking home, wind tugging at their coats, Margaret felt weary but certainthere was no turning back.
That evening, Harry set the table without prompting. The kitchen glowednot from the light, but from the quiet understanding that here, they owed no explanations. Margaret noticed him watching her, waiting. She smiled.
“Fancy tea with lemon?”
He shrugged but held her gaze. Later, he brought his maths homework, asking for helphis first real smile in weeks.
Days softened. Harry chatted on their walks, asked for coloured pencils. Margaret agreed, heart liftinga small trust forming. At the shops, he chose a sketchpad. That night, he drew a house with bright windows. She pinned it on the fridge, resting a hand on his shoulder. He didnt pull away.
Routines settled. They cooked togetherbeans on toast, sometimes pasta. Over meals, he shared school tales, no longer guarded. Emilys calls grew easier; Harry spoke calmly, sure shed return.
Another visit from child protection. Harry listed his chores proudly. The woman nodded. “All seems well.”
Relief washed over Margaretno more waiting for the next hurdle.
One morning, Harry boiled the kettle himself. Grey light seeped through the clouds.
“You always been an accountant?” he asked.
Margaret laughed, sharing office stories. He listened, grinning. Over breakfast, they planned weekend outings.
At school gates, he called, “See you later!”a quiet promise: this was his haven now.
Emily phoned that night, relief in her voice. “Thank you. I was so worried.”
Margaret smiled. “Were alright.”
Hanging up, she felt proudtheyd built trust from unease.
Spring air brightened. Harry planted onion shoots on the windowsilla small thing, but it meant roots. One evening, he asked:
“If Mums away again youd take me?”
Margaret met his eyes. “Course I would. Weve proved we manage.”
He nodded, content.
Mornings grew easiershared toast, packed bags, no more dread of official calls.
Sipping tea, Margaret realised: life had steadied. Not for paperwork or approval, but for the quiet trust between thembuilt piece by piece.
