“Wait for me, Miss Eleanor Whitmore!”
The school bell rang, and the corridors slowly emptied as teachers ushered the last straggling students to their classrooms.
Outside, the young leaves rustled in the breeze, and the sunshine beckoned. Eleanor paused outside the classroom door. Like her pupils, she longed to toss aside her duties and stroll through the springtime streets. With a sigh, she stepped inside. The Year 7B students noisily stood as she entered.
“Good morning. Please sit down,” she said, moving to her desk.
“Who’s absent today?” she asked, scanning the room swiftly.
Emily Sinclair, the class’s top student, stood and replied in flawless English that Ruby was ill and that Oliver wasn’t present. Chatter rippled through the room.
“James, what’s happened to Oliver?” Eleanor asked in concern.
James Parker lived next door to Oliver.
Everyone knew about Oliver’s father—released from prison a year ago, unemployed, drunk, and violent. His mother bore the brunt of it, and when Oliver tried to protect her, he suffered too. He often arrived at school with bruises, changing for P.E. last so no one would see the dark marks on his skin. The whole school knew—James had shared the truth.
Eleanor pitied Oliver. He was bright beyond his years, quick to learn—though English was his weakest subject. Still, he tried.
She’d returned to her old school after university, teaching English instead of moving to London or a private academy like her peers. The older students had a more experienced teacher, leaving Eleanor with the younger years. At first, they tested her, but soon they adored her, despite her strict appearance and the warmth that slipped through her feigned sternness.
The girls mimicked her manners; the boys masked their admiration with cheekiness. This year, she’d taken on form tutor duties for Year 7B.
“Miss Whitmore, last night his dad got drunk again—beat his mum. The whole street heard. The ambulance took her to hospital. Oliver called them once his dad passed out. The police arrested his father—took Oliver too, till they find his family.”
“What?!” Eleanor gasped. The class fell silent, waiting for her reaction. She swallowed hard. “Right. After lessons, I’ll go to the station and find out more.”
A murmur of relief filled the room.
Oliver’s face flashed in her mind—thirteen years old, too old for his age. She’d asked before if he needed help, but he’d always shaken his head, terrified. Sometimes, in class, she’d catch his intense gaze—it flustered her, made her stumble over her words.
The class waited.
“Okay, let’s begin,” she said, forcing brightness into her voice.
At break, she went to the headmaster.
“Mr. Thompson, Oliver—”
“I know, Miss Whitmore. The police called. They’re searching for relatives. If they don’t find any, he’ll go into care. His father’s looking at prison time, and his mother… Well, if she pulls through. Care’s no picnic either—better than a brute, but who knows?”
“I want to see him. Support him.”
“As his form tutor, you’ve the right. But be careful. I’ve seen it all before.” His weary glance signalled the conversation was over.
They met in a stark room with pale green walls.
“How’s Mum?” Oliver demanded.
Eleanor faltered—she hadn’t thought to ask.
“She’s in intensive care. Don’t worry, she’ll be alright,” she lied.
“Will they lock him up? Hope so,” Oliver muttered, tugging his sleeve over fresh bruises.
“Any family? Uncles, aunts, grandparents?”
“Dunno. Even if I had any, they wouldn’t want me. Thanks for coming, Miss.” His gaze burned into her. “Can I write to you?”
“Of course,” she said after a pause. “I don’t know if you’ll have internet there… Here’s my address and number.” She pressed a folded note into his hand.
“Thanks. You’re kind. I like you. A lot. I know I’m too young—but I’ll grow up. Wait for me.”
She nearly laughed at his clumsy confession, but her heart ached. She wanted to hug him, soothe him—but held back. He might mistake maternal care for something else.
A uniformed officer peered in. “Sorry, lunch is here…”
Time to go.
“Stay strong. Call or write if you need me.” She stood at the door.
“Miss Whitmore!” His voice cracked. “Wait for me.”
She nodded and left, blinking back tears. *Like a criminal. What will become of him?*
Two days later, the headmaster stopped her.
“Eleanor, my office.”
His use of her first name meant bad news.
“Oliver’s mother died. Buried already—psychologist barred him from the funeral. But his grandmother’s taken him in. Moving to Sheffield. Documents are sorted.”
He hesitated. “You’re young, pretty—students adore you. You understand, yes?”
“No,” she snapped, though she’d noticed Oliver’s infatuation.
“Boys fall for teachers—especially when the age gap’s small. Oliver craved affection he never got at home.”
“I understand, Mr. Thompson,” she said coldly.
She left, face burning. Oliver was a bright boy dealt a cruel hand. His capacity for love was a miracle—one he’d outgrow.
The next day, she told the class Oliver was with his grandmother. He’d promised to write.
His first letter arrived three weeks later—scrawled, brief. Sheffield was fine, his grandmother strict but kind. He missed them all. *I’ll come back.*
She replied, careful to keep it neutral. A year later, she met a man, married him, moved out—asked her mother to forward any letters. None came.
Her husband despised her teaching. “Waste of your skills. Translator jobs pay better.”
Their rows grew constant.
One day, feeling ill, she left work early. Passing a café, her phone rang—her mother. Mid-conversation, she froze. Her husband sat inside, holding hands with another woman.
That evening, he shouted, “You care more about other people’s kids than me!”
“Get out.”
“*My* flat, remember?”
She packed and moved in with her mother, who fretted, urging reconciliation. At dinner, nausea hit.
“You’re pregnant. Call your husband.”
She refused. A test confirmed it. Her mother stormed to his flat—returned furious.
“He denies it’s his! Says you’ve been with others. He’ll pay child support, mark my words.”
—
Six years later.
Early spring bathed the streets in warmth. Eleanor walked home, relishing the sun. Ahead, a puddle forced her to sidestep—blocked by a man’s polished shoes.
She looked up. A tall young man smiled.
“Hello, Miss Whitmore.”
“Hello. Which parent are you?”
“None yet. Don’t you recognise me? Ten years. I’m Oliver Grant.”
“Oliver?!” She studied him—his boyish features sharpened, his frame filled out. “I’d never have known!”
He helped her cross. They walked single-file between puddles.
“Let’s get coffee,” he suggested.
She hesitated—it was *that* café. But she agreed.
Inside, he said, “Graduated uni, work at a steel plant now. Grandmother passed last year. Strict, but… I miss her.”
“Your father?”
“Still in our old flat with some woman. I avoid him.” He hesitated. “I kept tabs on you. James Parker—remember him? Sent me photos from class. I prayed you’d leave him.”
“So *you* caused my divorce?” she teased.
“Maybe.” He grinned. “I’ve a flat, a car now. No excuses.”
“You’re twenty-three. I’m over ten years older. Find a girl your age.”
“You never replied to my letters.”
“Letters?” She remembered—her mother must’ve hidden them during the divorce.
He mistook her silence. “You thought I forgot? I never did. Your daughter needs a father. I’ll love her—love you both.”
“Oliver, I was your *teacher*.”
“Not anymore. Age? Just numbers. I’m stubborn—I won’t give up.”
At home, she mulled it over. *This is nostalgia. He’ll wake up one day.*
But he called daily. By May, their chats lasted hours. He’d improved his English, read widely—she corrected his grammar. When he didn’t call, she missed him.
One evening, the doorbell rang. Her daughter, Lily, flung it open before she could stop her.
Oliver stood there—roses in one hand, a dollhouse in the other.
“Got them mixed up,” he joked, swapping them.
Lily shrieked with delight.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered, eyeWith the warmth of his arms around her and her daughter’s laughter filling the air, Eleanor realized that love, in its purest form, had no need for rules or apologies.
