Love That Sprang from a Fib
“Mrs Davies, please don’t sack me! I’ve two kids and a mortgage!” Emily stood before Oakwood Primary’s headteacher, crumpled papers in hand. “I’ll put it right, swear I will!”
“Miss Wilson,” sighed Margaret Davies, “forging a forged teaching degree is grave misconduct, and—”
“I was going to finish uni! Cross my heart! Just one year left at Birmingham Uni!” the Year 3 teacher burst in, tears streaming. “Give me a chance!”
Headteacher Davies eyed the young woman kindly. Emily had taught here three years; pupils adored her, parents sang her praises. But rules were rules.
“Very well. One month to produce a real degree. Or else—”
“Thank you! Bless you!” Emily dashed for the door, then paused. “How did you know, though?”
“County Council audited staff files. They spotted… irregularities.”
Emily fled the office, nearly colliding with Arthur Bennett, the PE instructor. Silver-haired and lean at fifty-five, he steadied her elbow.
“You’re white as a sheet, Emily! What’s happened?”
“Arthur, it’s all gone pear-shaped! They’ll sack me!”
“Sack you? Whatever for?”
Emily hesitated. Admitting the truth felt mortifying. Arthur was principled, spotless reputation, twenty years at Oakwood.
“Some documents… weren’t quite right,” she mumbled vaguely.
“Which ones? Might I help?”
She met his eyes, tear-stained. Arthur always treated her paternally—shared sweets, asked after her kids. Since her divorce, Emily missed that steady kindness dreadfully.
“My degree… It’s… complicated.”
“Lost it, did you?”
“Er, yes!” she fibbed, clinging to the excuse. “Lost in the move. Duplicates take ages—red tape nightmare!”
Arthur scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Where’d you study? What year?”
“Birmingham, class of ’05,” Emily bluffed. Truthfully, she’d dropped out after three years post-marriage and babies.
“Righto! I’ve a mate in their archives—Simon. Could speed things up. What name? Maiden or married?”
Emily felt the quicksand deepen. “Maiden. Emily Jane Wilson.”
“Leave it with me. Simon owes me from uni days!”
“You’re too kind, Arthur. Really.”
“Nonsense! Colleagues stick together.”
That evening, Emily paced her kitchen like a caged squirrel. Seven-year-old Oliver doodled homework; five-year-old Sophie bossed dolls in the corner.
“Mum, why’re you crying?” Oliver peered up.
“Just tired, love.”
“Will Dad visit?”
“No, darling. Remember—Dad lives elsewhere now.”
Her heart clenched. She’d faked that degree for them—any decent wage would do. Oakwood offered stability.
Next day, Arthur cornered her at break. “Had a chinwag with Simon.”
Emily’s stomach flipped. “And?”
“No Wilson in their ’05 grads. Sure it wasn’t Manchester or somewhere?”
Emily’s world tilted. Think, think! “Oh blimey—post-divorce stress addles the brain! I’ll double-check.”
He patted her shoulder. “No rush. Shock plays tricks.”
Arthur’s kindness stung sharper. Widowed three years (cancer, no kids), he’d joined the lonely-hearts club overnight. Colleagues whispered he’d booked a solo trip to Spain to heal.
“Arthur… fancy lunch? My treat? You’ve been so decent.”
“School canteen’s fine! Their cottage pie’s top-notch.”
Over rubbery mash, they chatted. Arthur loved fishing, devoured historical novels, and tinkered in his Cotswolds cottage weekends. Lived alone, cooked shepherd’s pie.
“How d’you cope? Two little ’uns solo must be rough.”
“Manage,” Emily sighed. “Oliver helps with Sophie. Little trooper.”
“Ex paying child support?”
“Off-and-on. Job troubles—always an excuse.”
Arthur scowled. “Outrageous. Walks out, then skimps!”
“C’est la vie.”
“Mind if I check on you sometimes? Hate seeing you so rattled.”
“Not at all. It’s… lovely, actually.”
From then, Arthur popped by daily—apples from his garden, gentle chats. Emily cherished his warmth but squirmed inside.
A week later: “Remembered your uni yet?”
“Arthur, I’ve something… awful to confess,” she gulped. “But you’ll think terribly of me.”
“Out with it.”
“I… never graduated. Married third year, had babies. Then he left, I needed work. Forged the certificate. Horrible, I know—but the kids!”
Arthur fell silent. Emily stared at her shoes.
“So you lied to me?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Sorry.”
“Emily, forgery’s serious—”
“I know!” she
Life truly had the nuttiest way of turning a dodgy start into something rather lovely when folks owned up and sorted themselves out, Alfie and Imogen finally had their proper dad, Barnaby wasn’t lonely anymore, and Millicent, diploma proudly framed, was simply glad it had all begun with a fib she’d been brave enough to fix.
