She Was the First
Evelyn Whitmore rose at five in the morning, as always. Forty years of factory work had carved the habit deep, even three years into her retirement. Quietly, so as not to wake her husband, Albert, she slipped into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Beyond the window, the world was still dark, but she knew dawn wasn’t far off.
Today was special. Today was the first of September, and her granddaughter, Lily, was starting school. Evelyn was more nervous than the little girl herself. All week, she’d fussed over the uniform, checked the satchel a dozen times, counted the exercise books. Albert had only shaken his head and muttered that she was losing her marbles.
“What’s all the fuss about?” he’d grumbled. “Our boy walked himself to school and turned out fine.”
“I want to be there first,” Evelyn replied. “First to greet her at the gates, first to congratulate her.”
Albert didn’t understand this need of hers. He thought grandparents only got in the way. But Evelyn remembered thirty years ago, when she’d sent her own son, James, off to his first day. She’d been working double shifts then, stumbling home late every evening. It was James’s grandmother who’d stood at the school gates while Evelyn wept by the factory doors, bitter with regret.
“Don’t cry,” her neighbour, Margaret, had said back then. “Your boy will grow, have children of his own—then you’ll make it up to them.”
Now, at last, she was.
The tea steeped strong and fragrant. Evelyn poured it into her favourite cup, the one with tiny bluebells, and sat at the table. On the windowsill stood three bouquets—one bought from the market yesterday, another cut from the garden, and a third Albert had clumsily brought home the night before, mumbling something about how flowers were nonsense but handing them over all the same.
“Three’s too many,” she’d said.
“What if there’s more than one teacher?” Albert had shrugged. “You never know.”
By seven, Evelyn was under the shower. She put on her best dress—the navy one with white polka dots, saved for special occasions—did her hair, dabbed on lipstick. The mirror showed a woman with anxious eyes and a too-bright smile.
“What, you got a date or something?” Albert yawned from the pillow.
“I want to look nice for Lily,” she answered.
“You always do,” he mumbled into the sheets.
At half past seven, James called.
“Mum, we’re leaving now. Lily’s nervous—hardly slept all night.”
“Neither did I,” Evelyn admitted. “I’ll be at the school gates, waiting.”
“Mum, the assembly isn’t till nine.”
“I know. But I want to be first.”
James sighed. He was used to his mother’s quirks. Ever since Lily was born, Evelyn had seemed ten years younger—racing after the girl, pushing swings, buying toys. James and his wife, Sarah, could only marvel at it.
“All right, Mum. Just don’t catch cold—it’s nippy out.”
Evelyn gathered the bouquets, tucked sweets for Lily into her handbag, and set off. The walk took fifteen minutes, but she didn’t hurry. She wanted to savour the morning, the anticipation.
At the school gates, another woman already stood holding flowers. Evelyn’s heart sank—she wasn’t first after all. Then she recognised Dorothy Harper, their neighbour from down the hall.
“Here for the assembly?” Evelyn asked.
“My grandson’s starting today,” Dorothy nodded. “And you?”
“My granddaughter. Lily.”
The women stood together, chatting about children, school, how quickly time flew. Dorothy had been a nurse, retired only last year.
“You know,” she admitted, “I always dreamed of seeing my grandson off to school. My daughter married late—thought I’d never have grandchildren.”
“It’s the opposite for me,” Evelyn said. “I missed sending my own son—too busy working. Now I’m making up for it.”
More grandparents trickled in—all dressed smartly, clutching flowers, looking anxious. Evelyn studied their faces and wondered what stories they carried, what brought them here.
Then came Mrs. Thompson from the next street over, raising her granddaughter alone after her daughter died in a car crash. The girl, Emily, was shy, and Mrs. Thompson fretted she’d struggle.
“How’s Emily holding up?” Evelyn asked.
“Worried the other children will laugh at her dress. But it’s lovely—I sewed it myself.” Mrs. Thompson twisted her hands.
“Children are kinder than that,” Dorothy reassured her. “She’ll find her footing.”
An elderly man arrived with a towering bunch of gladioli. Evelyn didn’t know him, but he introduced himself as Mr. Dawson—his granddaughter, Charlotte, was adopted.
“Clever girl, she is,” he said proudly. “Already reads, counts to a hundred. Just needs more confidence.”
“School will help,” Evelyn said. “Children adapt fast.”
By half past eight, parents and children began arriving. Evelyn spotted James, Sarah, and Lily—the girl in a crisp white blouse, navy pinafore, hair tied with white ribbons. Her satchel, new and glossy, had a cartoon pony on it.
“Granny!” Lily shrieked, darting forward.
“My sweet girl!” Evelyn hugged her tight. “How are you feeling? Nervous?”
“A bit. Why’d you come so early?”
“Wanted to be the first to see you,” Evelyn smiled.
Lily nestled close. She’d always been closer to her grandmother than her parents—Evelyn spoiled her, read her stories, taught her to bake. James and Sarah were always working.
“Thanks for coming, Mum,” James said. “Lily’s calmer now.”
Sarah nodded gratefully. She worked at the bank, often late, and Evelyn’s help was precious.
“Granny, look at my satchel!” Lily tugged at it.
“Lovely! What’s inside?”
“Exercise books, pencils, crayons. And Mummy packed biscuits.”
Evelyn slipped a few sweets from her bag into Lily’s pocket.
“For courage.”
“Mum, don’t spoil her,” Sarah started, but James cut in.
“Leave it. Today’s special.”
The schoolyard buzzed. First-years clustered with parents; older children prepared performances. Teachers scurried, checked lists, gave instructions.
Evelyn noticed a young woman—Miss Harper, the new teacher—nervously smoothing her skirt. Fresh out of university, this was her first class.
“So young,” Dorothy murmured.
“She’ll be all right,” Evelyn said. “We met at the parents’ evening.”
The assembly began. The headmaster spoke; older pupils sang. The little ones stood wide-eyed, clutching their parents’ hands.
Evelyn kept her gaze on Lily. The girl stayed brave, didn’t cry, only glancing back now and then to check her grandmother was still there.
When the bell rang, everyone filed inside. Evelyn wanted to follow, but James stopped her.
“Go home, Mum. We’ll tell you all about it later.”
But Evelyn stayed. So did a few other grandparents, all too worried to leave.
“We’re a right lot,” Dorothy chuckled. “First ones here, fussing like it’s our own first day.”
Mrs. Thompson sighed. “I remember my gran walking me to school. Still warms my heart.”
“I missed that with James,” Evelyn said softly. “Now I see how much it matters—being there for the small things.”
At noon, the children spilled out. Lily spotted Evelyn instantly.
“Granny! You waited!”
“Of course. How was it?”
“Brilliant! Miss Harper’s nice, and I made a friend—Emily! We sit together.”
“Any lessons hard?”
“Nah. We drew lines and circles. Counted to ten.”
Evelyn listened, relieved. Lily was bright-eyed, chattering nonstop about her day.
“Granny, will you meet me tomorrow too?”
“If you like.”
“I like! It’s better when you’re here.”
They walked home, Lily bouncing with stories. Evelyn smiled—this was happiness, being there for the milestones.
At home, a celebration waited. Albert had bought a cake; Sarah baked scones. James poured juice. The whole family gathered to mark the day.
“Tell us everything,” Albert said.
Lily launched into tales of her classroom, her desk, her new friend.
“And Granny waited for me!” she crowed. “She was first this morning and first after!”
“Good on you, Mum,” James smiled.
“Oh, hush,” Evelyn said, but her heart glowed.
LateAs the afternoon light faded, Evelyn watched Lily trace letters in her new exercise book, and she knew—this was the joy she’d waited a lifetime to hold.
