‘That Button? Oh, I Called Her Holly. She Was Dashing About All Morning—Clearly Lost—Then Curled Up Right By My Feet. Poor Thing, I Just Had to Pop Her in the Car to Keep from Freezing,’ the Man Smiled… ‘Tammy, Honestly, How Can You Be So Unlucky? How Many Times Have I Told You—This Victor Was Never Right for You!’ Her Mother Scolded. Tamara Stood, Head Bowed, Feeling Like a Schoolgirl Caught with a Dreadful Mark—Even Though She’d Turned Thirty-Seven Not That Long Ago. She Was Bitterly Disappointed—For Herself, Her Broken Family, and Her Little Girl—For With Christmas Around the Corner, They’d Been Left Without a Father. ‘I’m Leaving You,’ Victor Had Announced Abruptly One Evening, and Tamara, Busy Serving Him a Hearty Bowl of Borscht, Didn’t Quite Understand at First— ‘Leaving? Where Are You Off To?’ She’d Asked Automatically, Placing the Plate on the Table. ‘You Really Are in Your Own Little World, Tammy! No Sense of the Serious! How Did I Even Live With You All These Years?’ Victor Moaned Dramatically— Tamara Didn’t Even Get to Ask for Details Before Victor, Without Pause, Listed All His Grievances—Including Her Constantly Yapping Dog and an Ever-Ill Daughter. No Romance Left, He Complained. He Finished His Rant With, ‘Take a Look at Yourself. Who Have You Even Become?’ Tamara Tried Glancing at Her Scared Reflection in the Cabinet’s Glass But Failed—Tears Streamed Down Her Face, and She Stayed Stuck in the Middle of the Kitchen, Alone. Victor Couldn’t Stand Tears. He Cast a Last Look at the Borscht, Stood Up, and Went to Pack… Their Little Dog, Button, Sensed Something Was Off and Padded Over, Whining to Console Her. ‘At Least I’ll Get Some Peace Without That Endless Howling,’ Victor Quipped as He Appeared in the Doorway With a Bag Slung Over His Shoulder. ‘What About Eve?’ Tamara Whispered, Imagining How Heartbroken Their Five-Year-Old Daughter—Peacefully Sleeping in Her Room—Would Be. ‘Figure It Out! You’re Her Mum, After All,’ Victor Tossed Back, and, With Button Howling, Walked Out the Front Door… Tamara Spent the Night Sitting in the Kitchen, Hugging Button, the Little Dog Licking Her Face to Comfort Her, Knowing Something Awful Had Happened. For Days, Tamara Didn’t Know How to Tell Her Mum. Her Mum Called Now and Then, Asking How Things Were, and Tamara Hurriedly Replied All Was Fine Before Switching Off Her Phone. ‘Have You Found Work Yet? Mind You, if That Rogue Victor Walks Out, How Will You Manage?’ Her Mum Said During a Visit. Tamara Finally Broke Down, Telling Her That No One Was Calling Her for Interviews and Victor Had Left Days Ago. Her Mum Groaned—She’d Always Suspected Something Like This, Disapproving That After Five Years and a Child Together, Victor Had Never Even Proposed… ‘Now What?’ She Finally Asked in Alarm. Tamara Shrugged: ‘I’ll Figure It Out… Maybe Get a Nursery Assistant Job at Eve’s Preschool,’ She Said in Defeat. ‘You Can’t Live Off a Nursery Assistant’s Wage for Long—And There’s Still That Dog to Feed,’ Her Mum Grumbled, Never Fond of Pets, Let Alone the Fluffy Button Her Daughter Had Rescued from the Street. She Was About to Lecture More When She Noticed Tamara Was Struggling Not to Cry. ‘Alright, No More Tears. I’ll Help Out—Look After Eve When Needed,’ She Relented… A Week Went By. By Then, Tamara Had Managed to Land a Job, Taking Eve to Preschool With Her—Which the Girl Loved. ‘Mummy, Maybe We Can Bring Button With Us to Help at Work? Grandma’s Always Complaining About Taking Her Out, and Button Could Help Wash Crockery and Guard Us at Nap Time!’ Eve Grinned. Tamara Laughed and Hugged Her Daughter—But Each Time Eve Asked Hopefully, ‘Mummy, Will Daddy Be Home in Time for Christmas?’ Tamara’s Heart Would Sink Again. She Couldn’t Bring Herself to Tell Eve the Whole Truth—So She Spun a Tale of Daddy Being on Urgent Business. She Tried Calling Victor, Who Always Said He Was Busy—‘Don’t Interrupt Me Sorting Out My Life, Tam! Tell Eve I’m a Super Spy on a Secret Mission. I Won’t Be Back Soon. That’s That.’ He’d Even Ask If She’d Seen His Tie— ‘What Am I Meant to Wear to New Year’s?’ He Complained, Hanging Up. Tamara Sat for Ages, Wondering How They’d Face Christmas Alone and What To Say To Eve… It Happened Unexpectedly— Grandma Was Taking Eve To The Clinic (Still Recovering From a Cold) When Victor Appeared, Rushing Round the Corner— ‘Daddy! You’re Back!’ Eve Squealed, Throwing Her Arms Around Him. Victor Tensed, Forced a Smile and Told Her That Sometimes Parents Don’t Live Together Anymore Before Hastily Disappearing. ‘Maybe I’ll Pop In to See You, If I Can,’ He Added Over His Shoulder. Eve’s Face Went Blank. ‘Please Don’t Pop In Anymore,’ She Whispered. That Night, Her Fever Returned—A Doctor Was Called Two Days Later. Eve Wouldn’t Speak to Anyone—or Seem Interested In Getting Better. ‘Likely Brought On By Stress,’ The Doctor Explained, Hearing Their Family Story. Tamara Blamed Herself—‘I Should Have Told Her Straight Away—She’s Such a Bright Girl, She’d Have Understood,’ She Told Her Muttering Mother. Days Later, a New Crisis—Grandma, Walking Button Without a Lead, Was Snapped At by the Dog, Who Promptly Bolted in the Opposite Direction. ‘Oh, Fine! See If I Care—Freeze Outside If You Like,’ the Old Woman Huffed, Heading Back Indoors to Give Eve Her Medicine. But Once Eve Heard Button Was Gone, She Refused Food and Water—Tamara’s Promises to Find Their Fluffy Friend Did Nothing— ‘Bring Back Button, Then I’ll Eat,’ Was All Eve Said, Turning Her Face to the Wall. ‘This Is Your Fault, Tamara! You Spoil Her—She’s Wild Now! I Told You…’ Her Mum Ranted. ‘Maybe You Should’ve Watched Button Instead of Lecturing Me, Mum,’ the Usually Quiet Tamara Snapped. ‘Well Really! I Do Everything for You!’ Her Mum Fumed, Storming Out. Tamara Was Alone Again, Wandering for Hours That Night, Hopeful Button Might Find Her Way Back—But Had to Return Home, Chilled and Exhausted, to a Fitful Sleep. Eve Woke Early, Dreamy: ‘Mummy, I Had a Dream About a Christmas Tree! We Decorated It and Found Button!’ Tamara Smiled Sadly—A Tiny Artificial Tree Stood On Their Table. Christmas Was Coming, and They’d Done Their Best to Prepare. But Eve Insisted Their Tree Must Be Real and Tall— ‘Then Button Will Come Back, Like In My Dream!’ She Sobbed. Tamara Sighed. A Real Tree Was Out of the Question—She Just Couldn’t Afford One. Calling Her Mum Brought a Rebuff: ‘Putting That Dog Before Your Own Mother! Think About That,’ She Huffed. The Weekend Came—Eve Still Listless, Refusing to Get Up. By Evening, With Everything Ready for Christmas, Eve Broke Down in Tears: ‘No Tree, Mummy—And Button and Daddy Won’t Come Home Now, Will They…’ Tamara Hugged Her Little Girl, Choking Back Tears. She Asked The Kindly Neighbour to Watch Eve and Rushed Out Into the Cold—Snowflakes Danced in the Air, People Bustled By, But Tamara Noticed No One—Desperately Searching for Button. ‘Where on Earth Could You Be, Little One?’ She Whispered, Walking the Same Old Paths By Heart. She Came Suddenly Across a Tiny Christmas Tree Market—A Stern-Looking Man in a Parka Standing by the Last Fluffy Fir Trees, Hopeful for a Quick Sale. ‘Fancy a Christmas Tree? Just a Couple Left—I’ll Throw In a Discount,’ He Said Briskly, Clearly Longing for Home and a Family Waiting. Just Then a Young Couple Bought One, Leaving Only a Single Tree. ‘Last One—Want It? I’ll Even Deliver,’ He Offered. Tamara Stared in Despair—She Had No Money, Not Even Enough at Home for Such a Splurge. She Noticed a Heap of Offcut Branches in His Van— ‘May I… Could I Take Some Branches, If You Don’t Need Them?’ She Asked, Embarrassed. He Looked at the Sad Woman, Sighed, and Nodded Kindly—‘Of Course. Here, Let Me Help.’ He Gathered an Armful for Her and Tamara Began Explaining—Haltingly—How Her Daughter Was Ill, Dreaming of a Tree, How Their Dog Had Run Off—How Nothing Felt Festive This Year… The Man Listened Quietly; His Own Wife Had Recently Left Him, The Loneliness Sharper Than Usual This Christmas. Just Then, Another Man Walked Up— ‘How Much for That Last Tree?’ He Asked. ‘Already Sold. Try The Next Stall Over,’ Replied the Seller Firmly. Tamara Looked at Him in Surprise. ‘Let Me Deliver the Tree to Your House,’ He Said, Suddenly Smiling. ‘But I Don’t Have Any Money,’ She Stammered. ‘I Know,’ He Nodded Softly. And Then Something Truly Magical Happened—Of the Sort That Only Christmas Can Bring— He Opened His Van, and There, Nestled on the Seat, Was Button—Snuggled in a Woolly Jumper, Sleepy and Safe. ‘How Do You Have Button?’ Tamara Breathed, Barely Holding Back Tears. ‘Button? Oh, I Called Her Holly—She Was Running Around All Morning, Clearly Lost— Then She Came and Curled Up By My Feet. I Waited, Then Popped Her in the Car So She’d Stay Warm, Poor Thing,’ He Smiled. His Name Was Paul—A Man Who Loved Animals and Was Brilliant With Children. Soon, Tamara’s Home Was Filled with Warmth and Laughter as Never Before—Perhaps Thanks to the Christmas Spirit That Brings Good People Together, or Perhaps It Was Simply Meant to Be… No One Can Say for Sure, Except That Their Newfound Family Was Happy— And Little Button Is Occasionally Still Called Holly After All!

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 11 min

Tinker? Oh, Id called her Holly. Shes been scampering about all morning, you know. Clearly lost. Later, she curled up at my feet. So I popped her into the car so she wouldnt freeze, poor thing, the man smiled…

Tabitha, honestly, how can someone be so unlucky? How many times have I said, that Jeff is no good for you! Tabithas mother scolded her.

Tabitha stood with her head bowed. Though shed only recently turned thirty-seven, she felt just like a girl againlike a schoolchild in trouble for a failed exam.

Most of all, Tabitha was overcome with a heavy sadnessgrieving for herself, her broken marriage, and her little daughter. On the eve of the most magical time of year, they found themselves without the head of their small family.

Im leaving, Jeff muttered carelessly that evening. At first, it didnt even register with Tabitha.

Leaving for where? she asked automatically, setting a steaming bowl of stew in front of him.

Oh Tabby, you really are from another world. You never understand the important things! How have I even managed all this time with you? Jeff rolled his eyes dramatically.

Before she could ask anything else, he launched into an explanation:

I just cant anymore! And that dog of yours, always yapping. Our daughter is forever ill. Theres no romance, Tabby. Look at yourself, what have you become? he finished, his tirade stabbing the room with its final words.

Tabitha peered at the dusty old cupboards glass, seeking her frightened reflection, but all she made out was blurred eyes and falling tears. She stood alone at the heart of her kitchen as silent sobs shook her shoulders.

Jeff couldnt stand her tears. He regarded his dinner sadly, pushed away from the table, and went off to pack his things…

Tinker, sensing something was wrong, darted around Tabithas feet, whining gently, doing her best to offer comfort.

Maybe now Ill finally get some rest, no more endless howling, Jeff declared, swinging his overnight bag into the doorway.

But Jeff, what about Maisie? Tabitha whispered, picturing their five-year-old, peacefully dreaming in her bedroom.

Youll sort something out, surely. Youre her mum, after all, he replied, and under Tinkers mournful song, he closed the door behind him…

Tabitha spent the entire night in the kitchen, clutching her little dog. Tinker licked her with a warm little tongue, trying to soothe her. The dog knew something terrible had happened.

For days, Tabitha didnt know how to break the news to her mother, who rang often. Tabitha would answer quickly, insist everything was fine, and hang up again.

And the job? Found anything suitable yet? Just be careful, you know that Jeff of yours will leave and what will you live on then? her mother said, visiting unannounced.

At that, Tabitha broke down in tears, explaining that nobody was calling her in for interviews, and that Jeff had left several days ago.

The older woman clucked her tongue in exasperation; this was not what shed expected.

Well, what did you expect? Five years together, a childand he never even proposed! her mother raged.

She truly pitied her wayward daughter and her granddaughter.

So what happens now? she asked eventually.

Tabitha shrugged:

Ill think of something. Perhaps Ill get work as a nursery assistant, with Maisie, she sighed.

But how long will you last on a nursery workers wages? Not to mention, youve got a dog to feed, her mother pointed out. Shed never really liked animals, and had barely tolerated Tinker, the little ball of fluff her daughter had picked up from the street.

She might have said more, but stopped when she saw Tabitha struggling to hold back her tears.

Never mind, love. Ill help if need be. If you get desperate, Ill look after Maisie, she tried to reassure her…

A week slipped by quietly.

Tabitha managed to get work at the nursery. Each morning she and Maisie walked hand-in-hand to the little school. Maisie was delighted.

Mummy, could we bring Tinker to work too, as an assistant? Granny keeps grumbling about walking her, and Tinker could help wash up and keep us safe during nap time, the girl said with a beaming smile.

Tabitha laughed, cuddling her daughter, though her heart filled with longing whenever Maisie asked:

Mummy, will Daddy be home soon? Will he be back for Christmas, do you think?

Tabitha couldnt bring herself to tell the truth, so she made up a story about an urgent business trip. She called Jeff, trying to arrange a visit, but he insisted he was busy:

Tabby, please, dont meddle in my private life. Tell Maisie Im a top-secret agent off on a crucial mission. Ill be away a while. Something like that, he said during one call. He even asked if shed seen his tie around the house.

Where could it be? Ive nothing for New Years, he lamented, ending the call.

Tabitha sat and stared into the cold dark evening. She wondered how she would face Christmas alone, and how she would explain it all to Maisie.

Everything unravelled quickly. Maisies granny was taking her to the doctor one day, after a bout of sniffles. As they turned the corner, Jeff suddenly appeared before them.

Daddy! Daddy, youre back! Maisie cried, running towards him.

Jeff hesitated, forced a smile, and quietly told her that he and Mummy wouldnt be living together anymorethen hurried away.

Maybe Ill pop in again if I can, he offered awkwardly.

Maisie froze, her face hard as stone, and whispered:

Dont come back.

That night her temperature soared, and two days later, the doctor was called in.

Maisie refused to talk, or even try to get better.

It might be down to stress, shrugged the doctor after hearing about her father.

Tabitha blamed herself:

I should have explained to Maisie earlier. Shes smart, she would have understood, she told her mother, who only shook her head…

Then, another shock. Granny took Tinker out for a walk, rushing and leaving her off the lead. The little dog decided to show some spirit.

When the mother scolded her, Tinker spun around and, with a flash of white paws, dashed off the opposite way.

So thats how youre going to be! Wont listen, eh? Well, freeze out here and youll come running back soon enough, spat out Granny, and hurried away to tend to her sick granddaughter.

But Maisie refused to eat or drink when she learned Tinker had gone missing. Nothing Tabitha promised seemed to reach her.

Once Tinker is found, then Ill eat, Maisie said, turning to face the wall.

This is your doing, Tabitha. Youve spoiled her. Shes run wild. I warned you… her mother began.

Perhaps you should have looked after Tinker, Mum, instead of always lecturing, for once, gentle Tabitha lashed out.

Really! I do my best for you both, her mother snapped, leaving the house in a huff…

Once again, Tabitha was alone. She wandered the streets around her home as the night fell, her thin form wrapped against the winter air.

Maisie was asleep at last. Tabitha held fast to hope that Tinker would find her way back, but the hours passed and the street stayed empty. Chilled to the bone, she returned and eventually slipped into an uneasy sleep…

Maisie woke early:

Mummy, I dreamed about a Christmas tree! We decorated it, and then we found Tinker! she announced, hope lighting her face.

Tabitha managed a sad smile. On the table was a tiny plastic Christmas treethe best they could prepare for the coming holiday.

But Maisie was distraught, insisting the tree must be real and grand.

Then well find Tinker! Thats how it worked in my dream! she sobbed.

Tabitha sighed. Buying a real tree was not an option; money was tight. She rang her mother, who flatly refused to visit:

Seems some dog matters more to you than your own mother. Think about that, she huffed.

Tabitha understood thered be no help. The weekend stretched before them, cold and uncertain.

Maisie felt ill and didnt want to get up. By evening, as everything was ready for Christmas, Maisie wept:

Theres still no tree, Mummy. And Tinkers not coming back. Nor is Daddy…

Tabitha stroked her hair, fighting back her own tears. She asked their kindly old neighbour to look after Maisie for a while, then slipped out into the night…

The cold air bit at her cheeks as snowflakes whirled in peculiar patterns through the lamplight. People passed by, faces glowing with cheer she could barely recognise. Steadfast, Tabitha searched each shadow, calling softly:

Where could you have gone, little one?

Wandering familiar streets, she found herself at a small Christmas tree market. A bearded man in a heavy coat shifted his weight from foot to foot near the last few trees. Tabitha stopped, frozen.

After a tree, are you? Theres just a couple left. Give you a deal, if you like, the man offered, eager to finish his day.

His family must be waiting… The table set, children peering out for him Tabitha thought, her heart aching.

At that moment, a young couple passed by and bought a tree.

Well, what about you? Taking this last one? Ill help you get it home, the man said.

Tabitha looked at him helplessly; she had no money with her, and not enough at home anyway for such a luxury.

She noticed a bundle of cut branches in the back of his van.

Might I have some of those… if you dont need them? she asked quietly.

The man looked her over, then at the heap of branches and nodded with a sigh.

Go on, love. Let me give you a hand, he said, hauling out the greenery for her.

Tabitha clutched the branches gratefully, almost ashamed.

You see, my daughters ill, dreaming of a tree… our dog went missing, and, well, everythings gone sad instead of festive…

For some reason, the man listened closely. His own wife had left him recently; the loneliness pressed in tighter during the holidays. He too felt there was nobody left waiting for him.

Suddenly, another man approached:

How much for the tree, then? this stranger inquired, eyeing up the lonely evergreen.

Already promised, mate. Perhaps next stall down the way still has some, the seller replied, nodding aside.

Tabitha stared at him, surprised.

Ill help you carry it home, the man smiled.

She realised then he wasnt as gruff as he appeared.

But I told you, I have no money, she protested.

I remember, he replied softly.

Then something truly extraordinary happenedsomething only possible in the strange logic of Christmas Eve.

The man opened the vans door, and there on the passenger seat, slept Tinker, woolly jumper pulled over her small frame, dreaming away.

How did you have Tinker? Tabitha gasped, barely holding back tears.

Tinker? I called her Holly shed been running around all morning, clearly lost. Then she curled up at my feet. I didnt want her catching a chill, so popped her in the car, the man smiled.

His name was Paul. He adored animals and children always loved him straightaway.

Soon, Tabithas flat felt warm and alive again, in a way shed never known before. Maybe it was the holiday magic, or perhaps it was the strange plans of fatewhos to say?

All anyone knows for certain is that, by some miracle, a new family began to take shape. And sometimes, these days, they still call Tinker by her dream-nameHolly.

When Tommy Rogers Was Carried Out of the Maternity Ward, the Midwife Told His Mother: “He’s a Big One. He’ll Grow Up Strong.” His Mother Said Nothing—She Already Looked at the Bundle As If It Wasn’t Her Child. Tommy Didn’t Grow Up to Be a Hero. He Became the Spare—You Know the Type, the Kid Who’s Born but Nobody Knows Quite What to Do With. “Your Strange Boy Is Sitting in the Sandpit Again, Scaring Off the Other Kids!” Aunt Louise, Local Neighbourhood Watch Queen, Shouted Down from the Second-Floor Balcony. Tommy’s Mother, a Worn-Out Woman With Lifeless Eyes, Only Bit Back: “If You Don’t Like It, Don’t Look. He’s Not Bothering Anyone.” And Tommy Really Didn’t Bother Anyone. Big, Awkward, Head Always Down, Long Arms Dangling at His Sides. At Five, He Didn’t Speak. At Seven, He Only Grunted. At Ten, He Finally Talked—But So Scratchy and Odd That It Might Have Been Better if He Hadn’t. At School They Put Him on the Back Row. Teachers Sighed at His Empty Gaze. “Rogers, Are You Even Listening?” the Maths Teacher Would Say, Tapping the Board With Chalk. Tommy Nodded. He Heard. He Just Didn’t See the Point in Answering. Why? They’d Give Him a Pass Just to Keep the Numbers Up, Then Send Him on His Way. The Other Kids Didn’t Bully Him—He Was Built Like a Young Ox and Looked Half-Wild. But No-One Befriended Him Either. They Steered Clear, Like Skirting a Deep Puddle. Home Wasn’t Any Better. His Stepdad Moved In When Tommy Turned Twelve, and Laid Down the Law: “I Don’t Want Him Here When I Get Home From Work. Eats Like a Horse, Useless as One.” So Tommy Learned to Disappear. Roaming Building Sites and Sitting in Basements, He’d Mastered the One Skill He Needed: To Blend in, To Melt Into Grey Concrete, To Become Invisible. Then Came the Night Everything Changed. It Was Drizzling, Miserable. Tommy, Now Fifteen, Sat on the Stairs Between the Fifth and Sixth Floor. Couldn’t Go Home—His Stepfather Had Guests, Which Meant Noise, Smoke, Maybe a Heavy Hand. The Flat Door Opposite Creaked Open. Tommy Tried to Make Himself Small. Out Stepped Mrs. Margaret Thompson. Older, Well Past Sixty With the Bearing of Someone Half That Age. The Estate Called Her Odd—She Didn’t Gossip on Benches, Never Quibbled Over Bread Prices, Always Walked Tall. She Looked at Tommy—Not With Pity, Not With Disgust, But the Way You’d Examine a Broken Gadget, Wondering if it Could Work Again. “What Are You Doing Here?” She Asked, Her Voice Low and Commanding. Tommy Sniffed. “Nothing.” “Nothing? Cats Are Born for Nothing,” She Replied. “Are You Hungry?” Tommy Was. He Was Always Hungry. Still Growing, Need Food, and at Home the Fridge Was Only Good for Rearing Mice. “Well? I Won’t Ask Twice.” He Stood, Awkwardly Unfolding to His Full Height, and Followed Her. Her Flat Was Like No Other—Books Everywhere: Shelves, Floor, Chairs. It Smelled of Old Paper and Something Delicious and Meaty. “Sit,” She Nodded at a Stool. “Wash Your Hands First. Soap’s Over There.” Tommy Obeyed. She Set a Plate Before Him—Potatoes and Real Beef Stew, Chunks of Meat, Not Sausage. He Couldn’t Remember When He’d Last Eaten Actual Meat. He Ate Fast, Barely Chewing. Mrs. Thompson Watched Him, Cheek Resting on Her Hand. “Where’s the Fire? No One’s Taking It Away. Chew—Your Stomach Will Thank You.” He Slowed Down. “Thanks,” He Mumbled, Wiping His Mouth on His Sleeve. “Not Your Sleeve. Ever Heard of Napkins? There.” She Slid a Pack Over. “You’re a Wild One, Aren’t You? Where’s Your Mum?” “At Home. With Him.” “I See. An Extra in Your Own Family.” She Said It So Matter-of-Fact, It Didn’t Even Sting—Just a Truth, Like ‘It’s Raining’ or ‘Bread’s Gone Up.’ “Listen, Rogers,” She Suddenly Said Sharply. “You’ve Got Two Choices. Drift Through Life and End Up Lost, or Get a Grip. You’re Strong—I Can See That. But There’s Not Much Upstairs.” “I’m Thick,” Tommy Admitted. “That’s What School Says.” “School Says a Lot. Curriculum’s Made for the Average. You’re Not Average. You’re Different. Show Me Those Hands.” He Looked at His Big, Bruised Knuckles. “Didn’t Think So. We’ll Find Out. Tomorrow, Fix My Tap—It’s Leaking. Don’t Want to Call the Plumber—It’ll Cost Me. I’ve Got The Tools.” From That Evening, Tommy Went to Mrs. Thompson’s Nearly Every Night. First, He Fixed Taps. Then Sockets, Then Locks. Turned Out His Hands Knew How Things Worked, Not by Logic, More by Instinct. Mrs. Thompson Didn’t Coddle—She Taught. Firmly, Demanding. “Don’t Hold It Like That!” She Barked. “Who Holds a Screwdriver Like a Spoon? Get a Grip!” And Rapped His Knuckles With a Ruler. It Stung. She Gave Him Books—Not School Ones, But Real Stories. About Survivors, Explorers, People Who Made it Against the Odds. “Read,” She’d Order. “Let Your Brain Work. You’re Not the First, You Know. There Are Millions Like You—and They Got Out. Why Can’t You?” Gradually, Tommy Learned Her Story. Mrs. Thompson Had Spent Her Whole Life as an Engineer at a Factory. Her Husband Died Young, She Had No Children. The Plant Closed in the Nineties, She Lived Off Her Pension and the Odd Technical Translation. But She Never Broke. Never Grew Bitter. Just Kept Going—Straight-Backed, Strict, Solitary. “I’ve No One,” She Said One Day. “And Neither Do You. But That’s Not the End. That’s the Start. Get It?” He Didn’t Really, But Nodded Anyway. When Tommy Turned Eighteen and Army Service Beckoned, She Called Him In for a Serious Chat. Laid the Table Like a Feast—Pies, Jam, The Lot. “Listen, Thomas”—For the First Time She Used His Full Name—“You Can’t Come Back Here. You’ll Sink. The Place Won’t Change—Same Estate, Same Faces, Same Despair. After Service, Find Yourself Somewhere New. Up North, Maybe—On a Site, Anywhere. But Not Here. Right?” “Right,” Tommy Nodded. “Here—Thirty Grand. All I’ve Got Saved. It’ll See You Through the Start If You Use It Wisely. Remember: You Don’t Owe Anyone Anything—Only Yourself. Become Someone, Thomas. Not for Me. For You.” He Wanted to Refuse, Say He Wouldn’t Take Her Last Penny. But Her Stern, Insistent Eyes Told Him: This Was Her Final Lesson, Her Last Command. He Took It and Left. He Never Came Back. Twenty Years Passed. The Estate Changed. The Old Poplars Were Felled, Asphalt Car Parks Poured in Their Place. Benches Were Metal Now—Uncomfortable and Cold. The Building Had Aged, the Façade Flaked, But Still Stood—Stubborn As an Old Man With Nowhere Else to Go. A Black 4×4 Pulled Up. Out Stepped a Man—Tall, Broad-Shouldered, Dressed in Subtle, Costly Clothes. His Face Weathered by Northern Winds, Eyes Calm, Certain. It Was Thomas Rogers. Mr. Rogers, His Staff Now Called Him. Owner of a Construction Firm in the North. 120 Staff. Three Big Projects. A Reputation for Doing Things Properly. He’d Started at the Bottom—A Labourer, Then Foreman, Site Manager. Studied Nights, Got His Degree. Saved, Invested, Took Risks. Failed Twice, But Climbed Back Twice. The Thirty Grand Mrs. Thompson Gave Him—He Sent Back Long Ago, Monthly, Until She Refused and Threatened to Bin It. But She Still Cashed the Cheques. Then One Day, the Transfers Came Back—“Addressee Not Found.” He Stared Up at Her Fifth-Floor Windows. All Dark. In the Courtyard Sat New Faces—The Old Crowd Were Gone. “Excuse Me,” He Asked a Woman, “Do You Know Mrs. Margaret Thompson—Flat Forty-Five?” The Women Perked Up—Well, Who Wouldn’t, Seeing a Man Like That Step Out of a Car Like This. “Oh, Love, Margaret… Well, She’s Not Well Now. Memory’s Gone, Gets Confused. Left Her Flat to Some ‘Relative’—Supposed Nephew. Now She’s in Some Village. Sold the Flat, I Think.” Rogers’ Heart Turned Cold. He’d Seen This Trick Up North: Be-friend a Lonely Old Soul, Get a Signature for the Flat, Ship Them to the Back of Beyond—If They Make It at All. “Where’s This Village?” “Out Past the Market Town—Forty Miles Down. Road’s Awful, But You’ll Manage.” He Thanked Her, Got in His Car, and Sped Off. The Village—Limberfield—Was Dying: Three Streets, Half the Homes Boarded, Autumn Rains Had Churned Up the Lanes. Just a Handful of Old Folks, Families With Nowhere Else. Tommy Found the Right House by Asking Round—a Sagging Cottage, Fence Down, Yard a Mess. Damp Clothes on a Washing Line. He Pushed Open the Gate—It Gave a Wretched Squeal. A Man Came to the Door—Unshaven, Vest Filthy, Eyes Bleary With Booze. “What Do You Want, Mate? Lost Your Way?” “Where’s Margaret Thompson?” Asked Tommy. “No Margaret Here. Get Lost.” Tommy Didn’t Bother With Talk. He Stepped Forward, Lifted the Man Out of the Way Without Effort, and Walked In. The Smell Hit Him—Damp, Mould, Something Sour. First Room—Dirty Plates, Bottles, Leftover Food. Second Room— There She Lay. Small, Withered, Hair Tangled, Face Ashen, Eyes Hollow. But Still Her. Still Mrs. Thompson—The Woman Who’d Taught Him How to Hold a Screwdriver, To Believe in Himself, Who’d Given Him Her Last Savings and Told Him to Be Someone. She Looked Up, Vision Cloudy. “Who’s There?” Her Voice Weak, Cracked. “It’s Me, Mrs. Thompson. Tommy. Rogers. Remember? Fixed Your Taps.” She Gazed a Long While, Eyes Blinking to Focus. Then Tears Sparkled. “Tommy…” She Whispered. “Back Again… Thought I Was Dreaming. You’ve Grown… You’re Somebody…” “I Am, Mrs. Thompson. Because of You.” He Wrapped Her in a Blanket—She Was Light as a Feather—And Picked Her Up. She Smelled of Illness and Damp, but Underneath Still That Scent of Old Paper and Soap. “Where Are We Going?” She Asked in Fear. “Home. My Home. It’s Warm and Full of Books—You’ll Love It.” At the Door, the Bloke Tried to Block the Way. “Oi, Where You Taking Her? Show Me Papers! She Signed Over the House—She’s Mine!” Tommy Fixed Him With an Even, Cold Stare That Made The Man Pale. “My Solicitors Will Want a Word. So Will the Police. If This Is a Scam, and It Will Come Out, You’ll Pay—Properly. Understood?” The Man Nodded, Shrinking Away. It Took Months—Court Cases, Forms, Proofs—to Undo the Fraud: The Flat Had Been Signed While Mrs. Thompson Wasn’t Competent. The Man Was a Known Small-Time Con, Already Convicted Before. The Flat Went Back. He Was Sent Down. But Mrs. Thompson Didn’t Need the Flat Anymore. Tommy Built a House—Large, Timber, Just Outside His Northern City. Not a Showy Mansion, Just Solid and Real—Larch Clad, Big Fire, Sun-Filled Windows. Mrs. Thompson Had the Brightest Room on the Ground Floor. The Best Doctors, a Live-In Carer, Good Food. She Grew Stronger, Got Some Colour Back—Her Memory Didn’t Fully Recover, Faces and Dates Evaded Her, But Her Spirit—Unchanged. Reading Again (Big Glasses), Bossing Staff for Dust on the Shelves. “What’s That? Cobwebs? Is This a House or a Shed?” She’d Grumble. Tommy Would Only Smile. But He Didn’t Stop There. One Day He Came Home With a Young Lad—All Ankles and Elbows, Gaunt and Watchful, A Scar on His Cheek, Clothes Hanging Off Him. “Mrs. Thompson,” Said Tommy, “Meet Alex. He Turned Up on Our Site—No Home, Straight Out the Care System, Just Turned Eighteen. Brilliant With His Hands, Mind All Over the Place.” Mrs. Thompson Put Down Her Book, Adjusted Her Glasses, Surveyed Alex. “What Are You Standing There For? Go Wash Your Hands—Soap’s There. It’s Meatballs for Tea.” Alex Flinched, Looked at Tommy, Who Smiled Encouragingly. A Month Later, a Girl Arrived—Katie, Twelve, Limping on Her Left Leg, Staring at the Floor. Tommy Had Her Put Into Care—Her Birth Mum Lost Parental Rights. The House Filled Up—Not Showy Charity, But a Family. A Family of the Unwanted, the Lost, Who’d Finally Found Each Other. Tommy Watched Mrs. Thompson Teach Alex the Plane, Tapping His Knuckles With Her Old Ruler. Watched Katie Read Aloud From a Book, Stirring in the Armchair, Stumbling Over Words, But Reading. “Tommy!” Mrs. Thompson Would Bark. “Don’t Just Stand There—Give Us a Hand! They Can’t Shift the Wardrobe Alone!” “Coming!” He’d Call. And He’d Go. To His Odd, Uneven, Complicated Family. For the First Time in Forty Years, He Felt He Belonged. “So, Alex,” Tommy Asked One Evening As Stars Dotted the Northern Sky, “How Are You Settling In?” The Lad Sat on the Step, Glancing Skyward. “Alright, Mr. Rogers. Just… Feels Weird. Why Me? I’m Nobody.” Tommy Sat, Pulled Out an Apple, Passed It Over. “You Know, Someone Once Told Me—‘Only Cats Are Born For Nothing.’” Alex Snorted. “What’s That Mean?” “Means Nothing Happens Without a Reason. Good or Bad. There’s Always Something Behind It. You’re Here Now—Not By Accident. So Am I.” A Light Flickered in Mrs. Thompson’s Room—Reading Late Again, Doctor’s Orders Be Damned. “Go to Bed, Alex. Big Day Tomorrow—We’re Fixing That Fence.” “Night, Mr. Rogers.” “Night.” He Sat Alone Under the Vast, Real Silence—No Yelling, No Fights, No Fear. Just Crickets and the Distant Hum of the Bypass. He Knew He Wouldn’t Be Able to Save Them All—All the Lost Cubs Cast Out by Life. But He’d Saved These. Mrs. Thompson. Himself. And For Now, That Was Enough. And When it Wasn’t? He’d Get Up and Carry On—Just Like She Taught Him.