**A Temporary Family**
The suitcase by the door was zipped shutlike the final touch before leaving. Emily adjusted the strap nervously, glancing at her sister and son. The hallway smelled damp; outside, rain drizzled, and a caretaker swept soggy leaves into a pile. She didnt want to go, but explaining that to ten-year-old Jack was pointless. He stood silently, staring at the floor. Sarah tried to sound cheerful, though her chest tightenedJack would be staying with her now.
“Everything will be fine,” she said, forcing a smile. “Mum will be back soon. Well manage until then.”
Emily hugged Jack quickly, as if hurrying to leave before she changed her mind. Then she nodded at Sarah*you understand*. A minute later, the door closed behind her, leaving a hollow silence. Jack stayed by the wall, clutching his old backpack. Sarah suddenly felt awkwardher nephew in her flat, his shoes beside her boots, his clothes folded on the chair. Theyd never lived together longer than a weekend.
“Come to the kitchen. The kettles boiled,” she said.
Jack followed without a word. The kitchen was warm; mugs and a plate of bread waited on the table. Sarah poured tea, chatting about the weather, the need for new wellies. He answered in monosyllables, his gaze distantfixed on the rain-streaked window or somewhere inside himself.
That evening, they unpacked his things. Jack neatly arranged T-shirts in the dresser and stacked schoolbooks on the desk. Sarah noticed how he avoided touching her old childhood toys, as if afraid to disturb the order of a strangers home. She didnt push conversation.
The first days were stiff with effort. Mornings passed in quiet routine: Sarah reminded him about breakfast, checked his bag. Jack ate slowly, barely looking up. Evenings were homework by the window or reading library books. They rarely turned on the tellythe noise grated on both.
Sarah knew he strugglednew rules, a new flat. She caught herself treating everything as temporary, even the mugs on the table, as if waiting for someone else. But there was no time to hesitate: in two days, shed file for temporary guardianship.
The council office smelled of paper and damp coats. The queue wound past notices about benefits and subsidies. Sarah clutched a folder of documents: Emilys letter, her own consent, copies of IDs, Jacks birth certificate. The clerk behind the glass spoke briskly:
“We need proof of the childs address and consent from the other parent”
“There isnt one. I brought the certificate copy.”
“We still need official confirmation”
Each request felt like an accusation. Sarah explained againEmilys contract work, the travel itineraryuntil finally, the application was accepted. But approval would take a week.
At home, she hid her exhaustion. She walked Jack to school herself, speaking to his teacher about the arrangement. Kids shoved past lockers in the corridor. The teacher eyed her warily:
“Youre responsible for him now? Documentation?”
Sarah handed over the papers. The woman scrutinised them.
“Ill need to inform the head. And for all matters, we contact you?”
“Yes. His mums working away. Ive applied for temporary guardianship.”
The teacher nodded, indifferent. “Just ensure he attends.”
Jack listened, tense, then left without a word. Sarah noticed his silences lengtheningsome evenings, he just stared out the window. She tried to draw him out, asking about friends or school. His replies were short, tired.
Days later, a call came from social services: “Well visit to assess the living conditions.”
Sarah scrubbed the flat spotless; that evening, they dusted and tidied together. She let Jack choose where to put his books.
“Doesnt matter. Its temporary,” he muttered.
“Not necessarily. Arrange them how you like.”
He shruggedbut shelved them himself.
The social worker arrived punctual, her phone ringing mid-inspection. “Yes, yes, checking now,” she snapped.
Sarah showed her around. The woman asked about routines, meals, school. Then, to Jack: “You happy here?”
He shrugged, jaw stubborn.
“He misses his mum,” Sarah cut in. “But we stick to schedule. Homework done, walks after school.”
The woman hummed. “Any complaints?”
“None,” Sarah said firmly. “Call me directly with concerns.”
That night, Jack asked, “What if Mum cant come back?”
Sarah 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 school incidenta scuffle with another boy. The teacher summoned Sarah, voice icy:
“Your nephews behaviour… We doubt you can control this.”
Sarahs temper flared. “Address concerns to *me*. The paperworks in order. If he needs supportcounselling, extra sessionsIll handle it. But dont judge our family.”
The teacher blinked, then nodded curtly. “Well monitor his adjustment.”
Walking home, wind tugging their hoods, Sarah felt weary but certainthere was no turning back.
That evening, Jack set the table without prompting. The kitchen glowednot from the bulb, but from the unspoken truce. He watched her sidelong, waiting. She smiled. “Tea with lemon?”
He shrugged but held her gaze. Later, he brought his maths homeworkfirst time asking for help. When he grasped the solution, he almost smiled.
Next morning, he spoke unprompted: “Can we stop for coloured pencils after school?”
At the shop, he chose a sketchbook too. Home again, he drew at the tablea house with bright windows. Sarah pinned it on the fridge, just resting a hand on his shoulder. He didnt pull away.
Rituals settled. Evenings were pasta or beans on toast, chatting about school. Jack laughed now, even phoned Emily without anxiety.
The social workers second visit was brief. Jack listed his chores proudly. “No issues,” she said, leaving.
One morning, Jack boiled the kettle first. Grey light seeped through clouds; pavement glistened. “You always been an accountant?” he asked.
Sarah shared storiesher office, youthful blunders. He listened, grinned.
At school gates, he turned back. “See you later!”
Not just wordsa claim on this temporary home.
Emily called that night, relief in her voice: “Thank you. I worried most about him.”
Sarah said simply, “Were fine.”
Later, Jack planted an onion in a glass on the sill. Small thingbut it meant roots.
One evening, he asked, “If Mum goes again… Youd take me?”
“Of course,” Sarah said. “We know how now.”
He nodded, serious. After, he sought her advice freelyfriends visiting, school secrets.
Spring air sharpened; puddles dried faster. Windows stayed open to kids shouts and bouncing balls.
One ordinary morning, breakfast at their usual spot, Jack packing his bag without remindersSarah realised life had steadied into a rhythm safe enough for a child. Not for paperwork or social workers approval, but for the quiet trust built step by step.
