The suitcase stood by the door, fastened tightlike the final touch before departure. Emma nervously adjusted her belt, casting quick glances at her sister and son. The hallway smelled damp; outside, rain drizzled, and the street sweeper pushed soggy leaves to the kerb. Emma didnt want to leave, but explaining that to ten-year-old Oliver was pointless. He stood silent, stubbornly staring at the floor. Margaret tried to seem cheerful, though her chest tightenedOliver would be living with her now.
“Everythingll be fine,” she said, forcing a smile. “Your mum will be back soon. Well manage till then.”
Emma hugged her son tightly and quickly, as if hurrying away before she changed her mind. Then she nodded at her sister*you understand*. A minute later, the door closed behind her, leaving the flat hollow and quiet. Oliver still leaned against the wall, clutching his old backpack. Margaret suddenly felt awkward: her nephew in her home, his shoes beside her wellingtons, his jumper draped over her chair. Theyd never lived together longer than a weekend.
“Come to the kitchen. The kettles just boiled,” she said.
Oliver followed without a word. The kitchen was warm; mugs and a plate of toast waited on the table. Margaret poured tea for them both, chatting about the rain, how theyd need new wellies soon. The boy gave one-word answers, his gaze fixed somewhere past herat the rain-streaked window or somewhere deep inside himself.
That evening, they unpacked his things. Oliver folded his shirts neatly into the dresser, stacked his exercise books by his school texts. Margaret noticed he avoided touching her old childhood toysas if afraid to disturb the order of a house not his own. She didnt push for conversation.
The first days were effortful. Mornings passed in silence: Margaret reminded him to eat breakfast, checked his satchel. Oliver chewed slowly, eyes down. Evenings, he did homework by the window or read library books. They rarely turned on the tellythe noise grated on them both.
Margaret knew the boy struggled with the new routine, the unfamiliar flat. She caught herself thinking everything felt temporaryeven the mugs on the table seemed to wait for someone else. But there was no time to hesitate: in two days, shed need to file for temporary guardianship.
The council office smelled of damp coats and paperwork. The queue wound past notices about benefits and subsidies. Margaret clutched a folder of documents: Emmas written consent, her own agreement, copies of IDs, Olivers birth certificate. The clerk behind the glass spoke briskly:
“Well need proof of the childs residence and consent from the other parent”
“There isnt one. I brought the birth certificate copy.”
“Still need official confirmation”
She leafed through the papers slowly; every remark sounded like reproach. Margaret sensed distrust beneath the formalities. She explained againher sisters work contract, the rotation schedule. Finally, the application was accepted, but with a warning: no decision for at least a week.
At home, Margaret hid her weariness. She walked Oliver to school herselfto speak with his form teacher about the arrangement. In the cloakroom, children shoved past lockers. The teacher eyed them warily:
“Youre his guardian now? Have you got the paperwork?”
Margaret handed over the forms. The woman scrutinised them:
“Ill need to inform the head. And for all matters, we contact you?”
“Yes. His mothers on shift work. Ive applied for temporary guardianship.”
The teacher nodded without warmth:
“Just ensure he attends regularly.”
Oliver listened, tense-faced, then left for class without a word. At home, he grew quieter, sometimes sitting by the window for hours. Margaret tried to talkasked about friends, lessons. His replies were short; tiredness hummed behind them.
Days later, the social worker called:
“Well visit to assess the living conditions.”
Margaret scrubbed the flat spotless; that evening, she and Oliver dusted and tidied together. She suggested he pick a shelf for his books.
“Doesnt matter. Ill move back anyway,” he muttered.
“Not necessarily. Arrange them how you like.”
He shrugged but rearranged them himself.
The social worker arrived on schedule, phone buzzing in her coat pocket. She spoke sharply to someone before turning to Margaret:
“Right, lets have a look.”
Margaret showed her round. The woman asked about routines, school, meals. Then she questioned Oliver directly:
“Are you happy here?”
The boy shrugged, jaw set.
“He misses his mum. But we keep to a schedule. Homework done on time, walks after school.”
The woman hummed:
“No complaints?”
“None,” Margaret said firmly. “Call me directly if concerns arise.”
That evening, Oliver asked:
“What if Mum cant come back?”
Margaret stilled, then sat beside him:
“Well manage. I promise.”
He nodded faintly. Later, he helped slice bread for supper without being asked.
Next day, a scuffle at school. The teacher summoned Margaret:
“Your nephew fought a boy from another class. Were concerned you cant maintain control.”
Her tone was icydistrust for an outsider with temporary rights. Margaret bristled:
“Address behavioural issues with me directly. My guardianship is legal; youve seen the documents. If he needs counselling or extra support, Ill arrange it. But dont presume to judge our family.”
The teacher blinked, then nodded curtly:
“Very well. Well monitor his adjustment.”
Walking home, wind tugging at their coats, Margaret felt weary but certain: there was no turning back.
That night, Oliver sliced bread without prompting as the kettle boiled. The kitchen warmednot from the lamplight but from the unspoken understanding that here, no one demanded explanations. Margaret noticed he didnt look away now; he watched her sidelong, as if waiting. She simply smiled:
“How about tea with lemon?”
He shrugged but held her gaze. Later, they dried dishes together, and in that ordinary task, something shifted. The stiffness between them since his arrival began to ease.
Upstairs, Oliver brought his maths workbookfirst time hed asked for help. Margaret explained the problem on scrap paper; when he grasped it, he smiled faintly. A real smile, the first in weeks.
Next morning, routine brightened. On their walk to school, Oliver asked if they could stop for coloured pencils later. Margaret agreed, heart liftingthis small trust mattered. At the gates, she wished him luck; he glanced back before entering. A tiny gesture, but it meant he no longer felt a stranger here.
After school, they bought pencils and a sketchpad. At home, Oliver drew at the kitchen table, then showed her his picture: a house with bright windows. Margaret pinned it on the fridge, saying nothingjust squeezed his shoulder. He didnt pull away. If he could draw a home here, maybe hed let himself belong.
Rituals took root quickly. Evenings, they cooked togethersometimes bangers and mash, sometimes beans on toast. Over meals, they talked about school: who said what in class, whose turn it was to tidy the reading corner. Oliver no longer hid his workbooks; he asked for help with spellings, shared funny playground tales. Occasionally, Emma called; the chats were brief, but Oliver spoke calmly, no trace of worry. His voice held certainty: his mum would return, and till then, he wasnt alone.
The social worker visited again, announced this time. She checked rooms, asked Oliver about his day. He answered plainly, even proudly listing his chores. The woman nodded at the tidy flat:
“Well ring if needed. All seems well.”
After, Margaret exhaledno one could accuse her of neglect now. The outside world had accepted their makeshift family.
One morning, Oliver rose early, filled the kettle himself. Dawn light seeped through clouds; wet pavement gleamed. Over breakfast, he asked:
“Have you always been an accountant?”
Margaret pausedhed never asked about her life before. She told him about her office, colleagues, youthful mishaps. Oliver listened, laughed at her stories. They talked easily nowlessons, football in the park, how soon spring would dry the pitches.
That day, they left for school unhurried: Oliver tied his laces, zipped his coat without reminders. At the door, he said:
“See you after school. Straight home.”
The words held a promise: this was his refuge now.
Later, Emma called from her shifta longer talk than usual. Oliver spoke steadily about school, new friends. After, Emmas voice softened:
“Thank you. I worried most about him. Now I can breathe.”
Margaret said simply:
“Were alright. Managing fine.”
Hanging up, she felt pridetheyd weathered those weeks, built trust from awkwardness.
Days settled into rhythm: tea with bakery bread, weekend plans. On the sill, a glass of water sprouted green onion shootsOlivers experiment. A small thing, but to Margaret, it meant new habits taking root, tiny joys growing.
One evening, Oliver asked suddenly:
“If Mum has to go away again Youd still take me?”
Margaret met his
