**Diary Entry**
The bell rang, and the school corridors gradually emptied. Teachers ushered lingering students into classrooms while outside, young leaves rustled in the breeze, and the sun beckoned everyone to enjoy the spring. Miss Eleanor Whitmore paused before her classroom door, fighting the same urge as her students to abandon everything for a walk through the blooming city. She sighed and stepped inside. Her Year 7B class rose noisily.
“Good morning. Sit down, please,” she said, moving toward her desk.
“Who’s absent today?” she asked, scanning the room.
Top student Lucy Hartley stood and reported in English that Emily Carter was ill and Daniel Finch was missing. Lucy was always quick—her English was the best in class. A murmur rippled through the room.
“James, where’s Daniel?” Eleanor asked in English this time.
James Parker lived next door to Daniel.
Everyone at school knew Daniel’s father had been released from prison a year ago. He drank, refused to work, and beat his wife relentlessly. Daniel didn’t escape it either when he tried to protect his mother. He often came to school with bruises, changing for PE last so no one would see. But they all knew. James had told them.
Eleanor’s heart ached for Daniel. He was bright, mature beyond his years—children from troubled homes grew up too fast. He grasped concepts quickly, struggled only with English, but never stopped trying.
After university, Eleanor returned to her old school to teach English. She hadn’t wanted to leave her mother alone, so she never moved to London or took a job at a private school like many of her classmates.
The older students had a more experienced teacher. Eleanor got the younger ones. At first, they tested her, but soon they grew fond of her. She dressed formally, but kindness always peeked through her stern facade. The girls mimicked her mannerisms; the boys hid their crushes behind rudeness. This year, she’d become 7B’s form tutor.
“Miss Whitmore, last night his dad was drunk again, beating Daniel’s mum. The whole street heard. An ambulance took her to hospital. Daniel called when his dad passed out. The police arrested his father—took Daniel too, until they find relatives.”
Eleanor gasped, eyes darting across the quiet class. They waited for her to say something. What could she say?
“Right. After school, I’ll go to the police station and see him.”
A relieved murmur spread.
Daniel’s face flashed in her mind—how often she’d asked if he needed help, only for him to shake his head, terrified. Sometimes, during lessons, she’d catch his intense gaze and stumble over her words, flushing.
The class held its breath.
“Okay, let’s begin,” she said, forcing brightness.
At break, she went to the headmaster.
“Mr. Thompson, about Daniel Finch—”
“I know, Miss Whitmore. The police called. If no relatives are found, he’ll go into care. His father’s facing charges. His mother… if she pulls through. Care isn’t ideal, but neither is a monster for a father.”
“I want to see him.”
“As his form tutor, you may. But don’t get involved. I’ve seen how these things go.” His weary glance ended the conversation.
They met in a drab room with peeling green walls.
“How’s my mum?” Daniel demanded.
Eleanor faltered—she hadn’t checked.
“She’s in intensive care. Try not to worry.” She willed her voice steady.
“Will he go to prison? I hope he does,” Daniel spat, yanking his sleeve over fresh bruises.
“Any relatives? Aunts, uncles, grandparents?”
“Dunno. Not that they’d want me.” He met her eyes. “Thanks for coming. Can I write to you?”
“Of course.” She hesitated, then scribbled her address and number on paper. “Take this.”
“Thank you. You’re kind. I like you. A lot. I know I’m too young, but I’ll grow up. Wait for me.”
His clumsy confession almost made her laugh, but her heart clenched. She wanted to hug him, soothe him—but held back. He might misunderstand.
A policewoman interrupted. “Lunch is here.”
Eleanor stood. “Stay strong. Call or write if you need anything.”
“Miss Whitmore!” His voice cracked. “Wait for me.”
She nodded and left, tears pricking her eyes. *What will become of him?*
Two days later, the headmaster stopped her.
“Eleanor, my office.”
The first-name basis meant trouble.
“Daniel’s mother died. Buried already. No funeral for him—psychologist refused. But his grandmother’s taking him to Sheffield. It’s settled.”
She exhaled. “That’s good.”
“You’re young. Students develop crushes—especially when home lacks warmth. Don’t encourage it.”
“I understand,” she said coolly, though gossip clearly had spread.
The next day, she told the class Daniel was with his grandmother. “He’ll write.”
Three weeks later, a letter arrived—messy, brief. Sheffield was fine. His grandmother was strict but didn’t hit. He missed them all. *I’ll come back.*
She replied, keeping it light—class updates, book recommendations.
A year later, she met a man, married him, moved out. She asked her mother to forward any letters, but none came.
Her husband resented her job. “You could earn more as a translator.”
Their fights escalated. One day, feeling ill, she left work early. Passing a café, her phone rang—her mother. Mid-call, she froze. Her husband sat inside, holding hands with another woman.
That evening, he yelled: “You care more about those kids than me!”
“Get out.”
“*My* flat. *You* leave.”
She packed and went to her mother’s. Over dinner, nausea hit.
“You’re pregnant,” her mother said. “Call him.”
She refused. The next day, a test confirmed it. Her mother stormed to his flat, returned furious. “He denies it’s his!”
***
Six years passed.
Spring arrived early. Eleanor walked home, enjoying the sun, thinking of summer holidays. Ahead, a puddle forced her onto muddy pavement edges—until a man blocked her path.
“Hello, Miss Whitmore.”
She frowned. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet. Ten years. Daniel Finch.”
“Daniel?” She studied him—tall, grown. “I’d never have recognised you!”
He helped her cross, chatting. They couldn’t walk side by side—puddles everywhere.
“Let’s get coffee,” he suggested.
The café was *that* one. She hesitated.
“Come on.”
Over tea, he said he’d finished university, worked at Sheffield Steelworks. His grandmother had passed. “Strict, but we got on. I miss her.”
“Your father?”
“Still in our old flat with some woman. Don’t care to see him.” He smiled. “I kept up with you. James Parker sent photos from class. I prayed you’d leave your husband.”
“Was that your doing?” she teased.
“Maybe.” His grin turned sly. “I’m here now. Flat, car, job. Marry me.”
She laughed. “You’re twenty-three! I’m ten years older.”
“You never replied to my letters.”
Her stomach dropped. Her mother must’ve hidden them.
He misread her silence. “Give me a chance. Your daughter needs a father.”
That night, she replayed their talk. *He’s clinging to the past. He’ll move on.*
But he didn’t. He called daily, spoke fluent English, made her laugh. She found herself waiting for his calls.
In May, school broke for summer. One evening, the doorbell rang. Her daughter, Lily, answered before she could stop her.
A bouquet of roses and a dollhouse box—Daniel stood there, grinning.
“You look good,” he said, eyes lingering on her robe.
Blushing, she invited him in. He charmed Lily, helped assemble the dollhouse.
Later, while washing dishes, he murmured, “Come to Sheffield. Just visit.”
She agreed.
They drove up early. Lily slept; they talked. He wanted her to move.
In Sheffield, they wandered the city. At night, she retreated to Lily’s room—his old one.
He set up candles in the living room, carried her there gently.
“Stop pretending,” he whispered.
She surrendered.
**Epilogue**
Some make rules; others break them. Against odds, she loved him back. Would it last? Maybe. Maybe not. Happiness depends only on them.
