**Diary Entry – March 12th, 1998**
The bell rang, and the school corridors slowly emptied. Teachers herded lingering students to their classrooms despite the spring air humming outside, full of promise.
Miss Eleanor Whitmore paused outside the door, just as eager as her pupils to abandon lessons and wander through the blossoming streets of Manchester. She sighed and stepped inside. Year 8B rose noisily to their feet.
“Good morning. Sit down, please,” she said, moving to her desk.
“Who’s absent today?” she asked, scanning the room.
Emily Dawson, the class’s star student, stood and answered smoothly in English—Harry Reed was ill, and James Bennett wasn’t there. A murmur rippled through the room.
“Tom, what’s happened with James?” Eleanor switched to a softer tone.
Tom Carter lived next door to James. Everyone knew the whispers—his father had been released from prison a year ago, drank heavily, and lashed out at his wife. James often bore the bruises when he stepped in to protect her. He changed for PE in private, hiding the marks, but the truth wasn’t a secret.
Eleanor felt for him. James was sharp, quick to learn—except in English, though he tried. She’d returned to her old school fresh from university, passing up London offers to stay near her widowed mother. The older students had a seasoned teacher; she took the younger ones. At first, they tested her, but soon they warmed to her honesty, the kindness beneath her no-nonsense manner.
“Miss Whitmore, last night… his dad was drunk again. The whole street heard the screaming. His mum’s in hospital. The police took his dad—and James, till they find family.”
Eleanor’s breath caught. “I’ll go to the station after lessons,” she said firmly. Relief flickered through the class.
James’s face flashed in her mind—that earnest, wounded gaze that sometimes made her stumble over her words. She’d offered help before, but he’d always refused, terrified.
At break, she knocked on the headmaster’s office.
“Mr. Thompson, about James Bennett—”
“I know. The police called. If no family’s found, he’ll go into care. His father’s facing time, and his mother… Well, care’s no picnic either.”
“I want to see him.”
“Your right as his form tutor. But tread carefully.”
They met in a sterile room, James’s sleeves tugged low over his wrists.
“How’s Mum?” he demanded.
Eleanor floundered—she hadn’t asked. “In intensive care. She’ll pull through.”
“Will they lock him up?” James’s voice was venom. “Hope so.”
“Any relatives? Aunts, uncles?”
“Dunno. Not that they’d want me.” His stare pinned her. “Can I write to you?”
She hesitated, then scrawled her address on a scrap of paper. “Of course.”
He took it, fingers brushing hers. “You’re kind. I like you. A lot. I know I’m too young now, but—wait for me?”
Her heart ached at the clumsy confession. She fought the urge to hug him—he might mistake comfort for something else.
A constable appeared. “Lunch is here.”
Time’s up.
“Keep strong,” Eleanor said at the door.
“Miss Whitmore!” His voice cracked. “Wait for me.”
She nodded and left, tears burning. *What’ll become of him?*
Two days later, the headmaster cornered her.
“Eleanor, my office.” The use of her first name spelled trouble.
“James’s mother died. Closed casket. His grandmother—his father’s mum—took him in. Sheffield. It’s… the best outcome.” He paused. “You’re young, pretty. Pupils get crushes. Especially ones starved of affection.”
“I understand,” she said coldly, though her face burned.
James was clever, unlucky in family. His capacity to love was a miracle, not a scandal. He’d forget in time.
She told the class he’d moved, that he’d write.
His first letter arrived three weeks later—short, scrawled. Sheffield was alright. School nearby. Missed them all. *I’ll come back.*
She replied cautiously, mentioning books he might like—C.S. Lewis, Orwell.
A year later, she married Daniel. He hated her teaching, resented the time it took. “You could earn double translating,” he’d sneer.
One afternoon, leaving early with a migraine, she spotted him through a café window, hands clasped with a blonde. That night, he snarled, “You care more about strangers than me!”
“Get out.”
“It’s *my* flat, darling.”
She moved back with her mother, who fretted. At dinner, nausea hit.
“You’re pregnant,” her mother said. “Call Daniel.”
Eleanor refused. The test was positive. Her mother stormed to Daniel’s, returned livid. “He denies it’s his! Says you’ve been ‘gallivanting.’”
Six years passed.
Spring 2004. Manchester glowed, puddles gleaming from melted snow. Eleanor walked home, relishing the sun. Ahead, a man blocked her path—tall, smiling.
“Hello, Miss Whitmore.”
“I’m sorry, which parent are you?”
His grin widened. “James Bennett. Ten years. Recognise me now?”
She gasped. The lanky boy was gone—replaced by broad shoulders, a confident grin. He steered her around puddles, chatting easily.
“Let’s grab a coffee,” he said.
They sat where she’d seen Daniel betray her. James knew—about the divorce, her daughter, Lily. “I kept tabs. Asked mates for photos of you. Devastated when you married.”
“You caused my divorce?” she teased.
“Possibly.” His smirk faded. “Why didn’t you reply to my letters?”
A shadow crossed her face. Her mother must’ve hidden them.
“I thought you’d moved on,” she lied.
“Never.” His voice dropped. “I’ve a flat now, a job at the steelworks. Lily needs a dad. I know what that’s worth.”
“You’re twenty-three. I’m—”
“Age is numbers.” He leaned in. “Give me a chance.”
At home, she wavered. *A boy’s fantasy. He’ll regret it.* But the calls started—long, easy. His English had improved; she corrected his grammar. By May, she missed them if they didn’t speak.
One evening, a knock. Lily opened the door before Eleanor could stop her.
James stood there, roses in one hand, a dollhouse in the other. “Mixed up the gifts,” he joked, swapping them.
Lily shrieked with delight.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured, eyes raking over her robe.
She blushed, invited him in. He charmed Lily, helped assemble the dollhouse. Over dishes, he said, “Come to Sheffield. Just see my life.”
She hesitated.
“I’ll drive you back Sunday if you hate it.”
They left at dawn. Lily slept in the car as James whispered promises—a fresh start, no past, just them.
Days were museums, parks. Nights, Eleanor feigned sleep in Lily’s room—his old one, his grandmother’s.
Then, candlelight. A hand lifting her gently. “You’re not fooling anyone,” he breathed.
She surrendered.
Rules exist. Some break them.
Will it last? All love risks ruin. Their happiness depends only on them—his decency, her courage, and the bond neither could deny.
