Miss Wilkins was the terror of St. Marys Secondary Technical School. Everyone was scared of herthe teacher whod scold you for being one minute late, dock marks for a wrinkled uniform, never smiled, and seemed to take pleasure in failing students.
In Year 9, I was the unofficial leader of the kids who hated her. I organised the complaints, cruel nicknames, and mean pranks. We called her “The Witch” and daydreamed about revenge for all the humiliation she put us through.
Everything changed one Friday in November.
Id skipped school to hang out with mates at the shopping centre. On the bus home, I spotted something strangeMiss Wilkins stepping out of a pharmacy in a rough part of town, carrying several bags.
Curiosity got the better of me. I got off at the next stop and followed her at a distance.
She walked into a run-down council estate. I waited, then crept closer. Through an open first-floor window, I heard voices.
“Miss, thank you for coming. Emilys been running a fever for three days.”
“Dont worry, Mrs. Taylor. Ive brought the antibiotics the doctor prescribed.”
_Emily Taylor?_ A quiet girl from my class, always tired, always missing lessons.
“How much do I owe you, Miss?”
“Nothing, Mrs. Taylor. Weve spoken about this.”
“But its so expensive…”
“Emilys a brilliant student. She deserves good health to keep studying.”
I peeked inside and saw Miss Wilkinsthe same strict, icy womanstroking Emilys forehead with a tenderness Id never seen in class.
“How are the maths problems coming along, love?”
“Alright, Miss. Been practising the exercises you gave me.”
“Good. On Monday, Ill bring some extra books to help with your GCSE prep.”
“Miss, I dont think I can stay for A-levels. Mum needs me to work…”
“Emily, your job right now is to study. Leave the rest to me.”
I walked away confused. _That_ wasnt the Miss Wilkins I knew.
The next week, I watched her more closely. Things Id never noticed before stood out.
When Liam fell asleep in class, instead of yelling like she did with the rest of us, shed gently shake his shoulder. Later, I found out he worked nights at a garage to help his family.
When Sophie forgot her homework, Miss Wilkins gave her a second chance without humiliating her. Turned out Sophie looked after her four younger siblings while her mum worked night shifts.
One day, I stayed behind after school.
“Miss, can I ask you something?”
“What is it, James?”
“Why are you… different with some of us?”
She paused, stacking papers on her desk.
“How so?”
“Youre stricter with me and some others. But with kids like Emily, youre… softer.”
“Sit down, James.”
I sat in the front row, nervous.
“You know the difference between you and Emily Taylor?”
“No.”
“You have parents who buy your school supplies, pay for extra tutoring if you need it, care about your grades. Emily doesnt.”
“Thats not my fault.”
“No. But it _is_ your responsibility to make the most of what youve got. When I push you, its because I know you can do better. When I go easy on Emily, its because shes already giving everything she has.”
“Do you… buy medicine for students?”
She fixed me with a sharp look.
“You followed me that day?”
I nodded, ashamed.
“James, some of my pupils come to school hungry. Others work nights to help at home. Some raise their siblings. If I can do _anything_ to keep them in education, I will.”
“With your own money?”
“With my own money.”
“Why?”
“Because I grew up like them. A teacher once bought me my first GCSE study guides. Without her, Id never have made it to uni.”
My throat tightened.
“But Miss… why are you so hard on _us_?”
“Because life will be harder. If I dont demand your best now, who will? Your parents will always defend you. Im the only one wholl tell you the truththe world wont hand you anything.”
“I never thought of it like that.”
“James, youre clever but lazy. You joke around instead of working. Do you know why that bothers me?”
“Why?”
“Because youre wasting chances Emily would kill for. She studies by candlelight when the electrics cut off. She still gets better marks than you.”
I felt like the worst person alive.
“Can… can I help somehow?”
“You truly want to?”
“Yeah.”
“Then _study_. Be the student youre meant to be. And if you really want to do more? Help classmates who are struggling.”
That day, I left school seeing everything differently. Miss Wilkins wasnt some wicked witch. She carried the weight of fifty families, spent her salary on kids who werent hers, toughened some up so life wouldnt break them, softened for others so they wouldnt shatter.
I started studying properly. Ran revision groups for struggling classmates. Stopped messing around.
At the end of the year, when she handed me my Year 9 report with a 9.2 average, Miss Wilkins smiledthe first time Id ever seen it.
“Well done, James. Knew you had it in you.”
“Miss… thanks for not giving up on me.”
“I never give up on my students. Even when they give up on me.”
Years later, when I graduated uni with top honours, the first thing I did was visit her. Still teaching at St. Marys, still strict, still buying medicine and supplies for pupils who needed it.
“Miss, I wanted to thank you.”
“Nothing to thank me for, James. _You_ did the work.”
“Yes, there is. You taught me that being hard on someone can be its own kind of love. That sometimes, the people who care most are the ones who go easiest on us.”
Now Im a university lecturer. When I have to be tough with my students, I think of Miss Wilkins. How strictness can be kindness. How demanding excellence means believing in someones potential.
My students probably hate me as much as I hated her. But I hope one daylike I didtheyll realise the toughest teachers are often the ones who love us most.
