Let Me Remind You “Mrs. Mary Stevens, the curl just won’t go right here,” sighed little Year Two pupil Timmy, prodding at the stubborn, wayward green leaf on the flower he’d tried so hard to paint. “Try not to press so hard, sweetheart. Glide the brush as gently as if you’re stroking a feather across your hand. There you go — wonderful! That curl’s a true delight!” The elderly teacher smiled. “And who’s this masterpiece for, then?” “For Mum!” Timmy beamed, triumphant at last. “It’s her birthday today — this is my present!” Pride rang clearly in his voice after her praise. “Oh, your mum’s a lucky lady, Timmy. Be patient, though — don’t close your sketchbook yet. Let the paint dry, so you don’t smudge it. When you get home you can carefully tear it out. She’ll just love it, you’ll see!” Mrs. Stevens gave one last fond glance to the boy’s determined, lowered head, and, smiling at her thoughts, returned to her desk. A gift for Mum — she hadn’t seen such pretty gifts in years. Timmy clearly had talent for art. She ought to call his mum and suggest signing him up for art school, such gifts shouldn’t go untended. And she’d ask her former pupil, now a mother herself, whether she’d liked her son’s present. Mrs. Stevens herself could hardly tear her eyes away from those flowers blooming on paper — as if their living, rustling leaves might suddenly stir. Just like his mum, that Timmy! Definitely just like her… Larissa at his age drew beautifully too… * “Mrs. Stevens, it’s Larissa, Timmy Carter’s mum,” came a call that evening in the teacher’s flat. “I’m ringing to let you know Timmy won’t be in tomorrow,” the voice of a young woman declared curtly. “Hello, Larissa! Has something happened?” Mrs. Stevens asked gently. “It has! That rascal ruined my whole birthday!” snapped the reply. “And now he’s lying there with a temperature — ambulance left just now.” “What do you mean, Larissa? He left school perfectly well, with your present…” “You mean those blotches?” “Blotches? Oh no, Larissa! He painted you such beautiful flowers! I was going to ring you myself — to recommend art school—” “I don’t know about flowers — but I certainly didn’t expect a mangy little lump!” “A lump? What do you mean?” Mrs. Stevens was bewildered by the nervous, muddled explanation from the other end. Her frown deepened as she listened. “Tell you what, Larissa — mind if I come round for a bit? I live just nearby…” Moments later, having gained consent from her former pupil — now, in the blink of an eye, her pupil’s mum too — Mrs. Stevens took from her drawer a thick album of faded photos and precious childhood drawings from her first ever class, and set off. In the bright kitchen where Larissa welcomed her, chaos reigned. Tidying away the cake and piling dishes in the sink, Timmy’s mum began to tell her tale: How he arrived home late from school, dripping with muddy water from backpack and clothes; how he pulled a sopping puppy from under his coat, smelling of the rubbish tip — he’d gone in after it himself when bullies tossed it in a ditch. The ruined textbooks, the ‘blotched’ art book not fit to look at. And now the fever high as nearly 102… The guests had left before tasting any cake, and the paramedic had scolded her for not keeping better watch… “So I took him back, that puppy, to the very dump when Timmy had fallen asleep. The sketchbook’s drying on the radiator — as for flowers, there’s nothing left at all,” Larissa scoffed, not seeing how Mrs. Stevens’ face darkened with each word. And when she mentioned the pup’s fate — rescued, then returned to the dump — the teacher grew black as thunder. Stroking the damaged album gently, she spoke softly. Of green swirls and painted flowers, of diligence and courage, of a boy’s heart that couldn’t bear unfairness — and the bullies who tossed a helpless creature in a ditch. Then she stood, led Larissa to the window: “There’s the ditch — Timmy could’ve drowned, never mind the puppy. But do you think he paused to think? Or was he thinking instead about the painted flowers, not wanting to spoil his gift for you?” “Have you forgotten, Larissa, how you once sat weeping on the school bench, clutching a stray kitten you’d saved from the toughs? How we all stroked it and waited with you for your mum? How you dreaded going home when they threw that ‘mangy lump’ out — until, thank heavens, they let you keep him in the end? Let me remind you… Tishka the kitten, who you adored; and floppy-eared Max, the mutt who walked by your side all the way to college; even the jackdaw with the broken wing you nursed in our class menagerie…” From her yellowed album Mrs. Stevens drew a large photo: a slender little girl in a school pinafore, beaming as she cradled a fluffy kitten, surrounded by classmates. “I’ll remind you of the kindness that once blossomed in your own heart, as vibrant and colourful as any paint.” After the photo, a faded childhood drawing floated down — a little girl clutching a shaggy kitten in one hand, tightly holding her mother’s palm in the other. “If I had my way,” Mrs. Stevens spoke more sternly, “I’d kiss that puppy’s nose and Timmy’s too! And those ‘blotches’ I’d frame, for no mother ever received a finer gift than raising her child to be a true person.” Larissa’s face changed with every word. Anxious glances darted toward Timmy’s closed bedroom. Her white knuckles tightened on the ruined sketchbook. “Mrs. Stevens! Please, watch Timmy for just a few minutes — I’ll be right back. Please!” The teacher watched as Larissa hurriedly tossed on her coat and dashed out the door. Out into the night she ran, toward the distant rubbish tip, heedless of muddy shoes, calling and searching beneath dirty boxes, rooting through litter, her worried eyes ever flicking back toward home… Would Timmy forgive her? * “Timmy, who’s that burying his nose in the flowers — is that your friend Duke?” “That’s him, Mrs. Stevens! Does it look like him?” “It certainly does! See that white star on his paw — just like when your Mum and I were scrubbing out those muddy paws, remember?” “And now I wash his paws every day!” Timmy declared with pride. “Mum says if you have a friend, you should look after him. She even got us a special tub for his baths!” “Your mum’s wonderful,” smiled Mrs. Stevens. “Are you drawing her another present?” “Yep, I want to put this one in a frame. She’s got those blotches up in a frame, but still keeps smiling at them. Is it normal to smile at blotches, Mrs. Stevens?” “At blotches?” the teacher chuckled. “Well, maybe — if they were made with love. Now tell me, how’s art school going?” “Oh, I’m doing great! Soon I’ll be able to paint Mum’s portrait! She’ll really love that! But for now…” Timmy rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a folded sheet. “This is from Mum — she paints too.” Mrs. Stevens unfolded it and touched the boy’s shoulder gently. Across the page, a bright, happy Timmy smiled, his hand resting atop his beloved black-and-white mongrel, gazing up at him in adoration. Beside them stood a tiny, fair-haired schoolgirl in an old-fashioned uniform, cuddling a fluffy kitten; and, off to the side, peering from behind a desk piled with reading books, Mrs. Stevens herself — smiling kindly, ageless wisdom shining in those eyes. In every stroke of the painting, in every colourful mark, Mrs. Stevens felt that secret, boundless pride only a mother could feel. Wiping away a tear, she suddenly brightened, noticing a single word, spelled out in blossoms and curling green vines at the very corner: “Remember.”

Author Walton MerrittReading 9 minViews 3

Ill remind you

Miss Mary, the swirl isnt working here, whispered little Tom, a crestfallen Year 2 pupil, prodding his obstinate, rebellious green leaf with his paintbrush. The leaf on his painted flower curled the wrong way brazenly.

Dont press so hard, love, the elderly teacher smiled warmly, sitting beside him. Just guide the brush gently, as if youre stroking a feather across your palm. Like thisthere you go! Not a swirl, my boy, a masterpiece! She beamed, And whos the lucky person youve painted this beauty for?

For Mum! Toms beaming face shone now that the naughty leaf cooperated. Its her birthday today! This is her present! His pride swelled after his teachers praise.

Well, your mums a very lucky lady, Tom. Hold on, dont close your sketchbook just yetlet the paint dry a moment so it doesnt smudge. When youre home, you can carefully tear out the page. Youll see; shell be over the moon!

Mary took a last look at Toms messy brown head bent over the paper, smiling at her own thoughts as she returned to her desk.

What a gift for his mum! She probably hasnt seen anything this lovely in years. Toms got a real knack for art; Mary made a mental note to ring his mum and suggest enrolling him in art club. Talents like these shouldnt go to waste.

And, of course, shed ask her former pupil whether she liked the gift. Mary herself couldnt tear her eyes away from those vivid flowers, twining and curling on the papershe almost felt as if the leaves themselves might start rustling.

Oh, Toms just like his mother! Without a doubt! Larissa could paint stunning pictures at his age as well…

*****

That evening, as Mary settled in with a cuppa, the phone rang in her small flat.

Its Larissa, Tom Cottons mum, came a younger womans stern voice. Im calling to say Tom wont be in tomorrow.

Hello, Larissa! Has something happened? Mary asked kindly.

Oh, you could say that! Hes ruined my whole birthday, the little imp! Larissa fumed. Now hes burning up with a feverthe ambulance crew only just left.

Waithe had a fever? He left school looking healthy, with your present in his bag…

You mean those splotches?

What do you mean, splotches? No, Larissa! He painted you such beautiful flowers! I was planning to call, to suggest enrolling him in art classes

I dont know what those flowers were, exactly, but I certainly wasnt expecting a scruffy, flea-ridden ball!

A ball? What are you on about? Mary grew increasingly anxious as she listened to Larissas frustrated tale.

You know what, Larissa? May I pop over just for a bit? I live nearby

Once Larissa agreed, Mary tucked an old, thick album of faded class photos and treasured childrens art under her arm and headed out.

Larissa welcomed her into the kitchenutter chaos after the attempted birthday party. Cake half-eaten, dishes piled in the sink, and the lingering scent of something burnt.

Larissas story tumbled out in frustrated pieces: how Tom came home late, filthy water streaming from his school bag and coat; how hed pulled from under his jumper a soaked puppy, stinking like a rubbish tip, rescued from a melted puddle of dirty water where some boys had tossed it; ruined exercise books; an album now smudged and drying sadly on the radiator. And how, not long after, Tom was feverish, close to 102°F, as the paramedics confirmed.

How the guests left without touching the cake, and the doctor scolded her for being neglectful.

So after he fell asleep, I took the puppy back to the dump where he found it. The albums on the radiatortheres hardly a flower left after all that water! Larissa sniffed unhappily.

She seemed not to notice how Mary darkened with every word, especially as she described what happened to the puppy Tom had saved.

When the story finished, Mary glanced sternly at Larissa, gently smoothing the battered album as it slid from the radiator. Her voice was calm but strong.

She spoke of green swirls and animated flowers; of childrens diligence, courage, and the kind of heart that refuses to let injustice pass by, especially of those ruffians who threw a helpless animal into the pit.

Then Mary drew Larissa over to the window.

There, do you see that ditch? she pointed. Your Tom could have drowned rescuing that little soulbut do you suppose he was thinking of himself? Perhaps he only thought of the flowers on his picture, hoping not to spoil his gift to you.

And have you forgotten, Larissa, the timelong ago, back in the 90swhen you sobbed on the school bench, clutching a stray kitten youd rescued from some bullies? How the whole class gathered round to stroke it, while your mum was sent for? You didnt want to go home, you blamed your parents when the scruffy little bundle was thrown outthank heavens they came round, in the end!

Ill remind you! And Tish, your own beloved cat, who you couldnt bear to part with! And floppy-eared Mukhtar, the mongrel you walked everywhere, even to university, and the young rook with a broken wing you cared for in the nature club…

Mary drew a large, yellowed photograph from her old album: a fragile, smiling girl in a white pinafore hugging a fluffy kitten, surrounded by cheerfully nosy classmates. In a quiet but steady tone, she went on:

Ill remind you of the kindness that always bloomed in your heart, in every shade beneath the sun.

From behind the photo, an old childs drawing fluttered outfaded now, showing a little girl with a shaggy puppy in one hand, clutching her mums palm with the other.

If it were up to me, Marys voice grew firmer, Id wrap that puppy and your Tom in a big hug! And Id frame those colourful blotchesbecause there isnt a gift better than raising your child to be a good person.

She didnt seem to notice how Larissas face changed with every wordhow she now shot worried glances at the closed bedroom door, her fingers white as they clenched the soggy album.

Miss Mary! Please, could you watch Tom for just a bit? Just a few minutes! Ill be quick!

Larissa dashed out, coat half on, and hurried through the drizzle back to the dump, not caring that her shoes and socks were soaked, turning over cardboard boxes and plastic bags, calling and peering anxiously towards home Would Tom ever forgive her?

*****

Tom, whos that poking his nose in the flowers? Is that your friendDigger?

Thats him, Miss Mary! Does he look the same?

Of course! That little white star on his paw still shines. I remember washing those paws with your mumoh, we laughed! the teacher chuckled fondly.

I wash his paws every day now! Tom announced proudly. Mum says, If you have a friend, you have to look after them. She even bought us a special dog bath!

Your mums wonderful, Mary smiled. Are you drawing her another present?

Yes! I want to frame this one. She has the old onethe blotchy onein a frame, and she looks at it and smiles. Miss, why would anyone smile at blotches?

Blotches? Mary laughed, Well, maybe, if the blotches come from the heart. Tell me, how are you getting on at art club these days?

Oh, its great! Ill be able to paint her portrait soonshell be so pleased! And look Tom reached into his rucksack and pulled out a folded sheet. This is from my mumshe draws, too!

Mary unfolded the drawing and gently squeezed the boys shoulder.

There, on the fresh white, a beaming Tom glittered with happiness, arm slung over the head of a scruffy, adoring mongrel. On one side stood a petite, fair-haired girl in an old-fashioned school uniform, hugging a fluffy kitten.

From the other side of the desk, buried in school books, Miss Mary herself looked on, smiling with infinite wisdom and kindness in her vivid eyes.

And in every brushstroke, every line, was that secret motherly pride, unmistakable and boundless.

Mary brushed away a tear and smiled gently. In the corner, hidden among bright flowers and curling green swirls, was one single word: Remember.

Mary tucked the picture into her bag, her own heart a riot of proud, bright blotches. She chanced a glance at Tom, who was humming as he painted, tongue poking out in careful concentration. Through the window, the rain finally let up; a small patch of sunlight warmed the old teachers desk.

She thought of all the children whod passed through her classroom, the tangled roots and petals of their lives, how kindness planted in childhood bloomed again and again. Mary pressed Toms drawing to her chest, and made a silent wish that wherever those children roamed, they would never forget how to love boldly, to rescue, to forgiveand to remember.

Outside, laughter burst on the playground, wild and gleeful, as if the world itself was starting over. Mary lifted her head, eyes shimmering, and whispered, Thank you.

And somewhere deep inside that bustling school, spring seemed to take root, promising that every heart, no matter how battered, could keep floweringif only someone reminded it how.

Raw and Real… In This Family, Everyone Lived Their Own Separate Life Dad, Alex, had more than just a wife — he often had another woman by his side, sometimes more than one. Mum, Jenny, suspected her husband’s affairs but wasn’t exactly a saint herself; she enjoyed spending time with a married colleague outside the home. The two sons were left to fend for themselves, neglected and often wandering about with nothing to do. Their mother insisted that it was entirely the school’s job to raise her kids. The only time the whole family gathered was on Sundays, quickly and silently munching lunch in the kitchen before rushing off in all directions. They might have spent the rest of their days in their broken, sinful, but oddly sweet world, if not for the tragedy that changed everything… When the younger son, Danny, turned twelve, Dad Alex took him to the garage as his helper for the first time. While Danny was exploring the tools, Alex popped out to chat with some car-enthusiast mates working nearby on their motors. Suddenly, thick black smoke billowed from Alex’s garage, followed by flames. No one knew what had happened. (It would later come out that Danny accidentally knocked a lit blowtorch onto a can of petrol.) People froze, panicked. Fire raged. Water was thrown over Alex, who rushed into the inferno. Seconds later, he emerged carrying his lifeless son. Danny was burned all over, save for his face — protected by his hands. His clothes had been reduced to ashes. Firefighters and an ambulance arrived. Danny was alive but barely. Surgeons worked desperately, while his parents waited in agony. A doctor emerged at last: “We’re doing all we can. Your son is in a coma. His chances are one in a million. Medicine can do no more. If Danny fights with everything he’s got, maybe a miracle will happen. Be strong.” Without thinking, Alex and Jenny dashed to the nearest church, drenched by a wild downpour, desperate to save their boy. For the first time in their lives, they entered the sanctuary. There, in the hushed gloom, they found Father Simon. “Our son’s dying! Please, what should we do?” Jenny sobbed. “Ah, so in need you come to God? Are you very sinful?” the priest asked bluntly. “Don’t think so. Never killed anyone,” Alex muttered, avoiding Father Simon’s piercing eyes. “But you killed your love for each other — it lies dead at your feet. Between loving husband and wife, not even a thread should pass. Between you, you could lay a tree trunk and it wouldn’t touch a soul! Pray for your son’s life, children. Pray hard. But remember, it’s all God’s will. Sometimes, God teaches the foolish this way. Otherwise you’d never learn. Love saves all.” Soaked through and through, Alex and Jenny knelt before the icon of St. Nicholas, sobbing out their prayers, making promises, vowing to end all their affairs. The next morning, the phone rang. Danny had come out of his coma. His parents rushed to his bedside. He tried to smile through his pain. “Mum, Dad, please don’t split up,” Danny whispered. “Why do you think we would, sweetheart? We’re together,” Jenny soothed, stroking his hot hand. Danny winced. “I saw it, Mum. And when I have children, I’ll name them after you.” Alex and Jenny exchanged glances, thinking Danny was talking nonsense — children? He couldn’t even lift a finger, barely clinging to life! But from that moment, Danny began to recover. All the family’s efforts went into saving him; the holiday home was sold. The garage and car, lost in the fire, could have helped too — but the only thing that mattered was that their boy survived. Grandparents chipped in however they could. The family rallied together in their shared grief. Even the longest day must end. A year passed. Danny was now at a rehabilitation centre, able to walk and look after himself. There, he met Mary, a girl his own age, also a burns survivor, her face terribly scarred. She was shy, never looking in mirrors. Danny was drawn to her gentle spirit and inner wisdom, wanting to protect her. They spent every free moment together. Both had known unimaginable pain and despair, learned to swallow bitter medicine, grow unafraid of needles and white coats. Time passed… Danny and Mary had a quiet wedding. Two beautiful children followed — a daughter, Charlotte, and, three years later, a son, Eugene. At last, the family seemed settled and at peace. Yet, at this point, Alex and Jenny decided to part ways. Everything with Danny had left them empty and weary. Both craved freedom and calm. Jenny moved in with her sister in the suburbs, but first stopped by the church for Father Simon’s blessing. She often thanked him for Danny’s life, but he always reminded her: “Thank God, Jenny!” He wasn’t pleased she was leaving, but said gently, “If you must, go and rest. Sometimes solitude is good for the soul. But come back! Husband and wife are one!” Alex remained alone in their empty flat. The sons, now with families of their own, lived separately. Even the former couple visited their grandchildren at different times, careful not to cross paths. In short, now everyone was comfortable…

I’ll Remind You — “Miss Mary, look, I just can’t get this curl right,” little Tom whispered sadly, poking his paintbrush at a stubborn green leaf on his flower painting that just wouldn’t curl the way he wanted. — “Don’t press so hard on your brush, darling… Like this—paint as if you’re tickling your palm with a feather. There! Well done! That’s not a curl, that’s a masterpiece!” smiled the elderly teacher. “And who’s the lucky person getting such a beautiful picture?” — “It’s for my mum!” Tom beamed, proud now that he’d conquered the stubborn leaf. “It’s her birthday today! This is my present!” His voice was tinged with a touch of pride at the teacher’s praise. — “Oh, your mum’s a lucky lady, Tom. Wait a minute—don’t close your sketchbook yet. Let the paint dry so it won’t smudge. When you get home, carefully tear the page out. Your mum will love it, you’ll see!” Miss Mary watched the small, dark head bent so intently over the drawing, then smiled to herself and returned to her desk. A present for mum! Mary couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen such a beautiful gift. Tom really did have a talent for art! She must call his mum and suggest signing him up for art classes—you can’t let a gift like this go to waste. It might be nice to ask her old pupil if she liked the present too. Mary herself couldn’t tear her eyes from those flourishing leaves and curling stems on the paper. It almost seemed as if they might rustle to life at any moment. Ah, he takes after his mother! Just like her. Larissa was a gifted little artist at his age too… ***** — “Miss Mary, this is Larissa, Tom’s mum,” came the evening call in the teacher’s flat, the young woman’s voice strict through the receiver, “Just phoning to say Tom won’t be in tomorrow.” — “Hello, Larissa! Is something wrong?” Miss Mary asked gently. — “Wrong? He ruined my whole birthday, that’s what! And now he’s lying in bed with a fever—the ambulance only just left!” — “A fever? But he left school perfectly well—and he was bringing you his present…” — “You mean those splodges?” — “What splodges, Larissa? He painted you flowers! I was just about to call you, to suggest art school for him…” — “I don’t know about flowers, but I certainly wasn’t expecting a scruffy heap!” — “A heap? What are you talking about?” Miss Mary was at a loss, frowning more deeply as she listened to Larissa’s agitated explanations. “Larissa, do you mind if I come over for a bit? I’m not far…” A few minutes later, with her former student’s consent—now, somehow, her pupil’s mum—Miss Mary was out the door, carrying an old album full of faded photos and remembered children’s drawings from her very first, long ago, beloved class. Larissa led her guest into a bright but chaotic kitchen. Clearing cake and dirty plates, she started to explain: How Tom arrived home late, caked in mud and water from his bag and clothes… How he pulled a drenched puppy from his jacket, reeking of rubbish, the poor creature thrown into a puddle by older boys—and how Tom had scrambled after him. How ruined textbooks and stained paintings were all that remained, the album on the radiator, nothing left of the flowers but a mess. How the guests left without tasting cake, and how the doctor had scolded her, a careless mother letting her child fall ill… — “So I took the puppy back to the dump once Tom fell asleep. The album’s still drying, but there’s nothing left. I can’t bear to look at it.” She didn’t notice how each word made Miss Mary grow sterner, nor how she darkened completely when Larissa recounted the puppy’s fate. Miss Mary stroked the ruined album and, quietly now, spoke— She talked of green curls and living flowers, of a child’s diligence and bravery beyond his years. Of a boy’s kind heart and about the bullies who’d thrown a helpless puppy into that puddle. Then she stood, took Larissa’s hand, and led her to the window: — “See there? That puddle? Tom could have drowned instead of the puppy. Do you really think he thought about that? Perhaps he was thinking of the flowers on his painting, hoping not to ruin his gift for you? Or have you forgotten, Larissa, how you once cried on a school bench in the old days, hugging a stray kitten you saved from bullies? How the whole class gathered, waiting for your mum? How you didn’t want to go home, blaming your parents when they tossed that ‘scruffy ball of fur’ out… Good thing you changed your mind in time! Well, let me remind you! And Tiddles, the one you couldn’t part with, and floppy-eared Max, that puppy, always by your side until university. Even the rook with a broken wing you nursed in our class pet corner…” From her yellowed album, Miss Mary took an old photograph—a slim girl in a white pinny, clutching a kitten and beaming at the crowd of classmates—and continued, voice gentle but firm: — “Let me remind you of the kindness that once blossomed in your heart in bright colours, against all odds…” An old drawing fluttered from the album onto the table—a little girl holding a scruffy kitten, her other hand clutching her mother’s. — “If it were up to me,” Miss Mary went on more sternly, “I’d shower that puppy and Tom both with kisses! I’d frame those colourful splodges! Because there’s no better present for a mother than raising a child who turns out a decent person!” The teacher didn’t notice Larissa growing paler, worrying glances thrown toward Tom’s bedroom, or the way her fingers clutched that ill-fated album… — “Miss Mary! Please, could you keep an eye on Tom for just a few minutes? I need to—please, I’ll be quick!” Under her teacher’s kind but watchful eyes, Larissa hurried into her coat and rushed out. Not caring about her soaked shoes, she ran back to the dump in the distance, calling and searching beneath cardboard boxes and through rubbish bags, anxious eyes straying again and again towards home… Would he forgive her? ***** — “Tom, who’s that with his nose buried in the flowers? Is that your friend—Digger?” — “That’s him, Miss Mary! Looks just like him, doesn’t he?” — “He does! And the white star on his paw—you painted it perfectly! I remember helping your mum scrub those paws, you know,” the teacher laughed kindly. — “I wash Digger’s paws every day now!” Tom said proudly. “Mum says, ‘If you have a friend, you take care of him!’ She even got us a special bath for him!” — “Your mum’s wonderful,” smiled Miss Mary. “Are you working on another present for her?” — “Yep! Going to put it in a frame. She’s still got those splodges on the wall, but now when she looks at them, she smiles. Can you smile at splodges, Miss Mary?” — “Splodges?” The teacher chuckled. “Maybe… if the splodges are made from the heart. Tell me, how are you getting on at art school? Is it going well?” — “Brilliantly! Soon I’ll be able to paint my mum’s portrait! She’ll love that! But for now—here.” Tom reached into his bag and handed her a folded piece of paper. “This is from my mum—she paints now, too.” Miss Mary unfolded the sheet, squeezing his shoulder gently. Smiling up from the page in a scatter of colourful paints was a beaming Tom, his hand resting on a black-and-white mongrel gazing at him adoringly. On the right stood a petite, fair-haired girl in an old-fashioned uniform, hugging a fluffy kitten… On the left, behind a desk laden with books, sat Miss Mary herself, smiling, her impossibly wise eyes watching over the happy children. In every brushstroke and dab of colour, Miss Mary felt the warmth of a mother’s pride. Tears sparkled, but she smiled as she noticed, in a quiet corner edged with flowers and curling green stems, a single word, lovingly written: “Remember.”