**Diary Entry – 12th March**
I’ve been headmaster at St. Catherine’s Primary for nearly twenty years now, and if there’s one truth I’ve learned, it’s this—children carry burdens most grown-ups never see. Some wear them plainly, while others hide them behind well-mannered smiles.
Emily Wright was one of the quiet ones.
Nine years old, slight for her age, with fair hair always tied in neat plaits. She never caused trouble, never spoke out of turn. If anything, she was easy to overlook—until I noticed what she was doing.
She was taking food.
Not carelessly, mind you. No frantic stuffing of pockets. Just careful slips of uneaten sandwiches, unopened juice cartons, or forgotten apples into her rucksack before zipping it up and walking off.
I’ve seen enough hardship to recognise when something isn’t right.
That afternoon, as the children scraped back their chairs, I knelt beside her.
“Emily, love,” I asked gently, “why are you taking that food?”
Her grip tightened on her bag straps.
“Sir… Mum works ever so hard, but sometimes we don’t have enough.”
I’ve spent too long around children to miss a half-truth. She wasn’t lying—but she wasn’t telling me all of it. Later, over supper with Margaret, I made up my mind. I’d follow her tomorrow.
I barely tasted the roast beef or heard the clink of cutlery. All I could see was Emily tucking away those leftovers.
Margaret noticed, of course. She always does.
“You’re quiet,” she said, tilting her head. “Bad day?”
I sighed. “It’s one of the pupils. Emily Wright.”
She waited.
“Found her taking food from the canteen. Not for herself—collecting it, like. Says her mum’s stretched thin, but…” I rubbed my temples. “Something doesn’t sit right.”
Margaret folded her hands. “You think there’s more?”
“I do. And—blimey—I reckon it’s serious.”
She didn’t blink. “What’ll you do?”
“Follow her. Tomorrow.”
Margaret just nodded, passing me the mash. “If your gut says it’s wrong, love, you’d best listen.”
The next day, as the school gates swung open, I kept my distance. Emily didn’t head home. Instead, she walked clear past her estate, towards the old industrial lot. My stomach knotted.
She stopped at a derelict flat—peeling paint, boarded windows, the whole lot. Then she unzipped her rucksack, placed the food in a rusted postbox, knocked twice, and ducked behind a hedge.
The door creaked open.
A bloke stepped out—gaunt, unshaven, hollow-eyed. He took the food without a word and vanished inside. Emily didn’t move till the door shut. Then she bolted.
Who was he? And why was a nine-year-old feeding him?
Next morning, I called Emily into my office. Her feet didn’t touch the floor.
“Emily,” I said softly, “who’s the man in the flat?”
Her face paled. For a second, I thought she’d bolt.
“I… I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s alright. I just want to help.”
She took a shaky breath. “His name’s Thomas. He was a fireman.”
A chill ran through me. Years back, there’d been a flat fire. A man died. His wife and daughter barely made it out.
Emily’s dad.
Thomas had saved them.
“He got us out,” she whispered, wiping tears. “But he couldn’t save Dad. After… he started drinking. Lost his job. His flat. Everyone forgot him.” Her voice cracked. “But I didn’t. He’s a hero. Even if he doesn’t think so.”
Bloody hell.
That evening, I went to the flat. Thomas answered, reeking of whisky and defeat.
“What d’you want?” he growled.
“I know about Emily.”
He stiffened.
“The little girl leaving you food,” I said. “She never stopped believing in you. Did you know it’s her?”
His jaw clenched. “I don’t want pity.”
“Not pity. Gratitude.”
He laughed bitterly. “Gratitude? I let her father die.”
“You saved her. And her mum. That counts, mate.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly: “She still remembers me.”
“Never forgot you.”
His hands shook. “Don’t deserve it.”
I stepped closer. “Then earn it. That little girl sees something in you. So bloody well see it too.”
The next day, Emily and I went back together.
For the first time in years, Thomas let us in.
Months passed. He quit the drink. I helped him into a support group. Emily kept visiting—only now, she stayed. One evening, over fish and chips, Thomas looked at her.
“Why’d you keep coming back? Even when I was rotten to you?”
Emily smiled. “Heroes shouldn’t be forgotten.”
Tears welled in his eyes.
He’s back at the fire station now—training new recruits. Not the same as before, but it’s something. And through it all, Emily never stopped believing in him.
Sometimes, it takes a child’s kindness to remind a man he’s worth saving.
**Lesson learned today:** The world forgets too easily. But a single act of remembrance—no matter how small—can pull a soul back from the edge.
