I shouldn’t be spending money on proper stationery, but perhaps putting this down will help. Margaret Broadchurch, our headteacher, sat across from me, her expression stern.
“Emily, please! Don’t sack me! I have two children, a mortgage!” My hands crushed the papers I held. “I’ll sort it, I swear!”
“Emily Louise,” she said firmly, “you submitted a forged university degree. This is a serious breach of professional conduct…”
“I was going to finish! Truly! I only had a year left at Lancaster Uni for my teaching degree!” I interrupted, tears escaping. “Mrs. Broadchurch, give me a chance!”
A flicker of sympathy crossed the headteacher of Willow Park Primary’s face. I’d been here three years, the children adored me, parents gave glowing reports. But rules were rules.
“Alright. You have one month to present a genuine teaching qualification. Otherwise…”
“Thank you! Oh, thank you!” I rushed towards the door but turned back. “How… how did you find out?”
“A county council audit checked all staff credentials. The discrepancy was flagged.”
Bursting out, I nearly collided with Robert Andrews, our PE teacher. Tall, silver-haired, he steadied me gently.
“What’s happened, Miss Davies? You’re white as a sheet.”
“Mr. Andrews… it’s all ruined! I’m being sacked!”
“Good heavens, whatever for?”
I hesitated, ashamed. Robert was principled, with an impeccable reputation, twenty years at Willow Park. “Paperwork… it wasn’t quite in order,” I mumbled vaguely.
“What specifically? Maybe I can assist?”
I looked up at him through tears. He always treated me with paternal kindness, offering sweets sometimes, asking after my children. Since the divorce, that male support had been sorely missing. “My degree… I have a problem with my certificate.”
“Lost, is it?” “Yes,” I lied, clutching the excuse. “Lost in the move. Getting a duplicate is dreadfully slow, such bureaucracy.”
Robert thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “Where did you study? What year?”
“Lancaster University,” I answered without blinking, though I’d only managed two years there before marriage, children, and life got in the way.
“Well now, I know someone in their archives. Might speed things up. What name were you registered under? Maiden or married?”
I felt myself sinking deeper into the quicksand of the lie. “Maiden. Emily Louise Davies.”
“Right. I’ll speak to Simon Patterson. Runs the archives. Old university chum.” “Mr. Andrews… you’re… so kind,” I whispered. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Think nothing of it! We’re colleagues. Must help each other out.”
That evening, pacing my tiny kitchen like a cornered animal, seven-year-old Max did homework at the table, five-year-old Lily played with dolls.
“Mum, why are you crying?” Max asked.
“Nothing, love. Just tired from work.”
“Is Dad coming?”
“No, sweetheart. Dad lives elsewhere now, remember?”
Looking at them, my heart clenched. They were why I’d forged the diploma. I needed decent pay, any job. Schools offered salary, benefits, security.
Next day, Robert approached me at break.
“Emily Louise, I spoke with Simon Patterson. He checked the archives.”
My heart lurched. “And?”
“Strange business. Your name isn’t in the graduate records. Wrong year perhaps? Or faculty?”
The ground shifted. I had to improvise. “You know, Mr. Andrews, I must be muddled. The divorce was such a shock, my memory’s awful. Maybe it was another university? I’ll remember and tell you.”
“Naturally. Head’s not straight after upheaval.” His care made me feel worse. Widowed three years ago after his wife’s long illness, he lived alone. Colleagues said he’d taken it hard, even travelling solo abroad.
“Mr. Andrews, could I buy you lunch? To thank you?”
“Emily Louise, please don’t spend your money!”
“I want to. You’ve been so good. Helping. I barely know you, beyond football lessons.”
He hesitated. “Well, only if it’s the school canteen. Their sausage rolls are decent.”
Over lunch, we talked. Robert enjoyed fly fishing, reading historical fiction, weekends at his Lake District cottage. Lived alone, cooked.
“How do you manage? On your own with the children must be tough?”
“Managing,” I sighed. “Max helps with Lily. He’s a grown-up little chap.”
“Ex-husband pays regular maintenance?”
“He pays… irregularly. Work’s patchy.”
Robert frowned. “Outrageous. Leaves his children, then won’t support them properly.”
“Well. That’s life.”
“Emily Louise, don’t take offence… but may I check in on you sometimes? You seem so troubled about these documents.”
“Of course. I… appreciate someone thinking of me.”
From then, Robert checked daily, bringing windfall apples for the children. His genuine concern was balm, yet my own deceit gnawed at me.
A week later, he mentioned the degree again.
“Emily Louise, recalled the university yet?”
“Mr. Andrews, I need to confess something,” I blurted, finding courage. “But I fear your judgement.”
“Out with it.”
“I… didn’t finish university. Married in second year, had the children. Then he left, I needed work. I forged the certificate for this job. It was dreadful, I know, but I had to feed them.”
Robert was silent for a long moment. I couldn’t look at him. “You’ve been lying to me all this time?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “Forgive me.”
“Emily Louise, this is serious. Forgery…”
“I know!” I cried. “I realise what I did! But what choice? Children to feed, no money, everywhere demanding QTS!”
He sighed heavily. “But can you teach? Have you the aptitude?”
“Yes. I was a good student. And I’m good with the children, you’ve seen.”
“True. You’re an excellent teacher.”
He fell silent, thoughtful. “Listen. What if… I loan you the fees to re-enroll? Study part-time, get a real qualification. Tell Mrs. Broadchurch document reinstatement is delayed. Administrative backlog.”
I couldn’t believe it. “Mr. Andrews… why? I deceived you!”
“Because…” he paused, “Because I don’t want you ruined. And your children are lovely.”
“But I couldn’t repay quickly…”
“No rush. Repay when able.”
Tears threatened. “Thank you. You’re saving us.”
“Nonsense. Just… no more lies, yes?”
“Yes,” I nodded, smiling properly for the first time in weeks.
Robert handled enrolment, citing delays due to ‘archive restoration’. Evenings found me studying, while he often popped in, helping with Max and Lily. Max adored him instantly, asking for football tips. Lily called him Uncle Rob, gifting plasticine creations.
“Emily Louise,” he said one evening, after the children were asleep, tea between us. “May I ask something?”
“Of course.”
“Do you… plan to marry again?”
I was startled. “I don’t know. Haven’t thought. Why?”
“Feels the children need a father. And you… need someone.” “Robert?”
He flushed. “I think of you constantly. Of all three of you. I want to care for you. I know I’m much older…”
“Robert…?”
“Let me finish! I realise this is unexpected. But you should know my feelings.”
I fell silent, bewildered. He was kind, dependable. But starting a relationship founded on my
**Personal Diary Entry**
That strict, unforgiving moment when Headmistress Valerie confronted me about my forged teaching certificate still claws at my throat whenever I recall it – the shame, the panic over losing everything for Ben and little Grace, the oppressive weight of the mortgage choking what little breath I had left. Charles from the PE department, bless him, became my unexpected anchor during that storm, his kindness the kind one reads about in old novels, his gentle patience so absolute it unearthed the buried truth. What began in disgrace—a desperate lie spun across Manchester—blossomed into a second chance: Charles funding my final year at London Metropolitan, then a tender courtship that stilled my children’s quiet fears, that softly sealed my shattered edges whole once more. And now, as we danced beneath the soft twinkling lights of our wedding reception, his strong arms steady around me, the children chasing laughingly around our joined hands, that old panic settled into nothing more than the remembered ache of a lesson learned. I know now that from deception, true happiness can truly grow; for here we spin together, bound by every honest tear and grateful second chance, our little family remade, warm and firm and safe beneath the lightest touch of grace. Our story, now softly sealed, rests quietly, thankful every day for that chance beginning.
