Today I scrubbed the stairs of the old council flats, hoping each swipe would pave a brighter road for the boy I raise on my own. The thought of what might happen still brings tears to my eyes.
Every dawn, as the building shivers between night and day, I pull my hair back, slip on my faded green apron and set off up the steps. At thirtyfive I wear a smile that outshines the flickering street lamps. Since Arthur was born six years ago, my world has revolved around one mantra: Make it good for him. His father vanished early, as if his life never got beyond the opening line, and I learned in a single long night what it means to be both mother and father, to refuse exhaustion.
The mop slides over the worn tiles, the bucket follows dutifully, and in my mind I count each step not as a chore but as a journey. Every floor is another paid day, another meal on the table, another notebook for Arthur. Though the cuffs of my sleeves grow damp, I keep my grin for the afternoon, when he bursts out of the school gates, backpack bouncing.
Mum, I read aloud today! he greets me.
And the stairs are waiting for you to read them too, I tease, and he laughs.
After school we walk hand in hand toward the blocks I tend. One hand grips the mops handle, the other holds Arthurs warm fingers. He already knows the rhythm: I wipe the railings, he opens the postboxes and shuts them neatly, one after another, like books waiting to be read. When he tires he sits on a step and reads his favourite story out loud, his voice filling the stairwell with simple, clean music.
Some neighbours rush past, shrugging; others avert their eyes, embarrassed to see a child learning beside a bucket of water. Yet some leave a bag of apples at the door or shout Well done, champ! and that lifts Arthurs spirits.
Mum, I love it here, he says sometimes. It feels warm when you whisper bravo from across the hall.
I sigh inwardly. I love his happiness beside me, but I also wish him a joy that isnt scented with detergentchildhood with grass under his knees and notebooks full of stories, not endless loops of stairs.
One chilly November afternoon, as the light dwindles and the air bites, Arthur is reading on the third step. Im scrubbing a stubborn stain when an elderly lady in a navy coat appears in the hallway. She pauses, listening to his careful pronunciation, then steps forward with a gentle smile.
You read beautifully, love, she says. Whats your name?
Tudor, he replies, eyes shining.
And yours, dear?
Emily.
She glanced at the mop, the bucket, my weary but steady hands.
Im Mrs. Anne, she introduced herself. I taught English for forty years. If youd like, I could give Arthur a little test right here on the stairs. I promise not to splash any marks.
We all chuckled. Her test turned into a conversation. Arthur spoke of his characters, of how sometimes the bad people are just tired, and how heroes dont raise their voices, they get on with the work. Mrs. Anne listened, asked questions, and then produced a small notebook from her bag.
Arthur, write ten lines every dayabout anything: stairs, rain, Mum. And if you let me, Ill visit now and then. I miss children who love to learn.
A warmth lit my chest, as if a new little light had been switched on. I whispered a quiet thank you, feeling it turn into a prayer.
That evening we ate soup and read a line from the notebook each. From then on Arthur wrote daily. He made mistakes, asked questions, always begged for one more line. Between the two blocks, between the two floors, I found my breath in his words.
A few weeks later, the buildings manager arrived with a young man in a corporate blazer. He asked briefly who the lady who cleans so well was. I rose, my heart fluttering at the unexpected recognition.
We represent a firm that manages several new developments nearby, the young man explained. The neighbours recommended you. We need someone reliablefixed schedule, contracted salary, medical insurance. And (he looked at Arthur) we could arrange an afternoon shift so you can be with your son.
My knees softenednot for the money, though it was welcomebut for the hours that would open like bright windows: homework done at a desk, books read on a sofa, not between the second and third landing.
I accept, I managed. Thank you. Know that I dont clean; I keep people from walking through life with dust on their souls.
He smiled, a rare, unhurried grin. Exactly the people we need.
From that day the routine changed. In the mornings Arthur went to school, I to the new offices. At lunch I met him at the gate, mops tail still in hand, but my palms less tired. Afternoons became ours.
Mrs. Anne kept appearing now and then, a gentle season. She helped Arthur with reading and writing, and his confidence grew. At the winter concert he was chosen to read an entire page before parents. I stood in the third row, hands clasped like in a church without icons, listening to my childs voice fill the hall. When he finished, the applause felt natural. He scanned the crowd, found me, smiled and raised his notebook for a brief moment.
After the performance, the headteacher lifted Arthur onto her shoulders.
We have a reading circle and a project with the town library. Wed like to enroll him. He has an ear for words and a heart for people.
Tears welled, quietly held at the corners of my eyes.
Time passed. One evening, returning from the library, Arthur stopped me midpavement.
Mum, do you know what Ive realised?
Whats that, love?
That I didnt grow up on flat stairs. I grew up on steps. And steps always lead somewhere.
I laughed, a laugh that rose from my soles to the crown of my head, pulled him close and answered,
Yes. And where they lead isnt an address, loveit’s a person. You.
In spring, the old manager called just to congratulate me. Neighbours had pooled money and bought Arthur a large set of books. For the boy who reads the stairs, a card read. I cradled the gift as if it were a fledgling light.
The following summer my firm raised my salary and asked me to lead a small team. I was no longer alone with a mop; I taught other women to share the load, claim their rights, respect themselves. Between instructions I always recalled the beginning: the flickering neon, the orange bucket, the boy reading on the third step, and I thanked, silently, each climb.
One Sunday afternoon Arthur came bearing a crumpled poster.
Mum, theres a story competition at the library. The theme is My Hero. Can I write about you?
If it feels right in your heart, write it, I said, trying to keep my emotions in check.
He told me: My hero didnt save the world. He cleaned it. And every night he showed me that from the simplest hallway you can make a classroom, if you have a book and love.
I turned my head to wipe my eyes discreetly, not wanting to ruin his perfect sentence.
His story won a special mentionnot for fancy words, but for truth. At the ceremony Mrs. Anne embraced me.
See? she whispered. You have polished not only the stairs but his future.
We walked home on foot, climbing our own stepsno mop, just a bag of books and a heart full.
Sometimes the road to goodness doesnt look like a motorway. It looks like a block of flats, climbed daily with a mop in one hand and a small hand in the other. But if you climb together, at the top you wont find a dooryoull find a fulfilled person.
