Margaret Thompson woke at five in the morning, just as she always did. Forty years of factory work had ingrained habits that didn’t fade, even after three years of retirement. Quietly, so as not to wake her husband, George, she padded to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Outside, it was still dark, but she knew dawn wasn’t far off.
Today was special. The first of September—her granddaughter Emily’s first day of school. Margaret was more nervous than the little girl herself. All week, she’d fussed over Emily’s uniform, checked her backpack, counted her notebooks. George had just shaken his head and told her she was overdoing it.
“Why are you fussing like a headless chicken?” he grumbled. “Our boy went to school just fine, didn’t he?”
“I want to be there first,” Margaret insisted. “First to greet her, first to say well done.”
George didn’t understand her urgency. He thought grandparents only got in the way at times like these. But Margaret remembered the day thirty years ago when she’d sent her son James off to school. She’d been working double shifts back then, barely home before nightfall. It was James’s other grandmother, her own mother, who’d gone to the assembly while Margaret stood at the factory gates, blinking back tears.
“Don’t cry,” her neighbour Edith had told her. “Your boy will grow up, have children of his own, and then you’ll make up for it.”
Now, she was making up for it.
The tea brewed strong and fragrant. Margaret poured it into her favourite rose-patterned cup and sat at the table. On the windowsill stood three bouquets—one bought at the market yesterday, another picked from the garden, and the third brought home by George the evening before. He’d been sheepish about it, muttering that it was silly, but he’d brought it all the same.
“Three bouquets is too much,” she’d told him.
“Suppose there’s more than one teacher?” George shrugged. “You never know.”
By seven, Margaret was under the shower. She put on her best dress—the blue one with white polka dots, saved for special occasions—did her hair, and dabbed on some lipstick. The mirror reflected a smartly dressed woman with anxious eyes.
“What, dressing up for a date?” George teased as he woke.
“I want to look nice for Emily,” she replied.
“You always do,” he muttered into his pillow.
At half seven, James called.
“Mum, we’re heading out now. Emily’s nervous—hardly slept all night.”
“Neither did I,” Margaret admitted. “I’m off to the school now. I’ll wait for her.”
“Mum, the assembly doesn’t start till nine.”
“I know. But I want to be first.”
James sighed. He’d long grown used to his mother’s quirks. Since Emily was born, Margaret had seemed ten years younger, always racing about with the little girl, taking her to nursery, to the swings, buying toys. James and his wife could only marvel.
“All right, Mum. Just don’t catch a chill—it’s nippy out.”
Margaret gathered the bouquets, tucked a few sweets for Emily into her handbag, and set off. The walk took fifteen minutes, but she took her time, savouring the quiet morning and the anticipation.
At the school gates, another woman already stood holding flowers. Margaret’s heart sank—so she wasn’t first after all. Then she recognized her neighbour, Mrs. Carter from down the road.
“Here for the assembly?” Margaret asked.
“My grandson’s starting today,” Mrs. Carter nodded. “And you?”
“My granddaughter. Emily.”
They stood together, chatting about children, school, how quickly time flew. Mrs. Carter, a retired nurse, was pleasant company.
“You know,” she confided, “I’ve always dreamed of seeing my grandson off to school. My daughter married late—I thought I’d never have grandchildren.”
“Me, it’s the opposite,” Margaret said. “I missed seeing my son off—was always at work. Now, I’m making up for it.”
More grandparents trickled in, all dressed smartly, clutching flowers, looking nervous. Margaret watched them, thinking each had their own story, their own reason for being here.
There was Mrs. Turner from two streets over, raising her granddaughter alone after her daughter’s accident. Little Sophie was shy, and Mrs. Turner worried school would be hard for her.
“How’s Sophie?” Margaret asked.
“Worried. Thinks the other children will laugh at her dress. But it’s lovely—I made it myself.”
“Children are kind—they won’t laugh,” Mrs. Carter reassured her. “She just needs to feel more sure of herself.”
An older man approached with a towering bouquet of gladioli—Mr. Harris, he introduced himself. His granddaughter was adopted, taken in from foster care.
“Our Katie’s clever,” he said proudly. “Already reads and counts to a hundred. Just shy, is all.”
“She’ll settle in,” Margaret said. “Children make friends quickly.”
By half eight, parents and children began arriving. Margaret spotted James with his wife, Lisa, and Emily in her crisp white blouse, navy skirt, and hair tied with ribbons. She carried a new satchel decorated with cartoon characters.
“Granny!” Emily cried, racing over.
“My darling!” Margaret hugged her. “All right? You nervous?”
“A bit. Why’re you here so early?”
“Wanted to be first to see you,” Margaret smiled.
Emily clung to her. She’d always been closer to her grandmother than to her busy parents. Margaret spoiled her, read to her, taught her to bake biscuits while James and Lisa were tied up with work.
“Thanks for coming, Mum,” James said. “Emily was fretful earlier—she’s calmer now.”
Lisa, a bank manager always working late, was grateful too.
“Granny, look at my satchel!” Emily said.
“Lovely! What’s inside?”
“Notebooks, pens, pencils. And Mummy packed biscuits.”
Margaret slipped her a few sweets from her bag.
“For courage.”
“Mum, don’t spoil her,” Lisa began, but James stopped her.
“Let it go. It’s a special day.”
The schoolyard filled. First-years clustered with parents while older pupils rehearsed. Teachers bustled about checking lists.
Margaret noticed the young teacher—Miss Davies—looking flustered. Fresh out of training, this was her first class.
“So young,” murmured Mrs. Carter.
“Yes,” Margaret agreed. “But she seemed kind at the parents’ meeting.”
The assembly began. The headmaster spoke, older pupils performed, and the little ones listened wide-eyed.
Margaret never took her eyes off Emily, who stood bravely, only glancing back now and then to check Granny was still there.
When the bell rang, everyone filed inside. Margaret wanted to walk Emily to her classroom, but James said parents would handle it.
“Go home, Mum. We’ll come by after and tell you how it went.”
But Margaret stayed, lingering with other grandparents who couldn’t bear to leave.
“Like we’re the ones starting school,” Mrs. Turner said.
“My hands won’t stop shaking,” admitted Mrs. Carter.
Mr. Harris smoked by the fence, restless.
“Katie’s in there on her own,” he fretted. “What if it’s too much?”
“She’ll be fine,” Margaret said. “Children adapt.”
Half an hour later, parents emerged. James and Lisa looked relieved.
“How was she?” Margaret asked at once.
“Brilliant! Sat at the front, made friends with a girl named Sophie. The teacher said she’s bright.”
“No tears?”
“Not a one. Just lit up when she saw us.”
Margaret sighed in relief. The first day had gone well.
“Mum, let’s head home,” James said. “Lisa’s got a cake—we’ll celebrate.”
“No,” Margaret said. “I’ll wait. Want to meet Emily after.”
“Mum, that’s not till noon!”
“I don’t mind.”
James and Lisa left, but Margaret stayed, along with a few others too anxious to go.
“You know,” Mrs. Carter mused, “we did well. Came first, gave them a proper send-off.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Turner smiled. “I remember my gran seeing me off. Still warms my heart.”
“I missed my son’s first day,” Margaret said quietly. “That’s why this matters so much. Being there when it counts.”
At noon, children spilled out. The first-years came last, clinging to Miss Davies, scanning the crowd. Margaret waved when she spotted Emily.
“Granny! You waited!” The little girl barrelled into her arms.
“Course I did. How was it?”
“Brilliant! Miss Davies is nice, and the children are lovely. Sophie and I are desk-mates!”
“Lessons hard?”
“Easy! We drew lines and circles. Counted to ten.”
Margaret listened, heart full. The first day had been a success.
“Granny, will you”Will you meet me tomorrow too?” Emily asked, clutching her grandmother’s hand as they walked home under the golden September sun.
