“Wait for Me, Miss Emily!”
The bell rang, and the school corridors gradually emptied. Teachers herded lingering students into classrooms as young leaves rustled outside, their green shimmer taunting everyone to abandon lessons for the sunshine.
Miss Emily Hart paused outside her classroom door. Even she—especially she—wanted to ditch the lesson plan and wander through the springtime streets of Winchester. With a resigned sigh, she stepped inside. Year 8B erupted into chaotic cheers before scrambling to their feet.
“Good morning. Sit down, please,” she said, weaving past desks to her own at the front.
“Who’s absent today?” Her practiced glance swept the room.
Lucy Bennett—top of the class, inevitable future head girl—stood and politely listed the missing: “Jenny Carter’s ill, and Oliver Thompson isn’t here.” The ripple of murmurs wasn’t about attendance records. Everyone knew why Oliver skipped.
Miss Emily switched to English. “James, what’s going on with Oliver?”
James Cooper lived next door to Oliver. The whole school knew Oliver’s dad had been released from prison last year, unemployed, drowning in lager, and taking it out on his wife. Oliver caught the worst of it when he intervened. He’d slink into PE late to hide bruises under his hoodie, but the truth was as obvious as the black eye he’d tried to explain away as a football mishap.
Miss Emily had a soft spot for Oliver. Bright-eyed, quick-witted—kids from rough homes grew up too fast. He aced every subject except French, though he scribbled conjugations like his life depended on it.
She’d returned to her old secondary school after uni, turning down posh London academies to stay near her mum. The older students got veteran teachers; Miss Emily got the middling years. At first, they’d tested her—chalk in her tea, chairs “accidentally” kicked over—but her strict blazer-and-skirt combo couldn’t hide the laughter in her eyes. The girls copied her mannerisms; the boys hid crushes behind exaggerated indifference. This year, she’d been made form tutor for 8B.
“Miss, his dad got wasted again last night,” James mumbled. “Whole block heard the shouting. Ambulance took his mum to hospital around midnight. Oliver called after his dad passed out. Police carted his dad off—took Oliver too till they sort his family.”
“What?!” The class held its breath. Miss Emily’s mind raced. What could she possibly say?
“Right. I’ll stop by the station after school.” The collective exhale was almost comical.
Oliver’s face flashed in her mind—those piercing looks he’d give her during lessons, the ones that made her fumble with the whiteboard markers.
“Okay, let’s begin,” she said with forced cheer.
At break, she cornered the headmaster.
“Mr. Edwards, about Oliver Thompson—”
“I know. Police rang.” He rubbed his temples. “They’re tracking down relatives. If not… care home. His father’s facing time, and his mother… Well. Let’s just say care homes aren’t all biscuits and bedtime stories.”
“I’d like to see him.”
“As form tutor, you’ve the right. But don’t get tangled in this, Emily. Been in this job thirty years—it never ends well.” His weary glance dismissed her.
The visitation room had walls the color of overcooked peas and chairs that creaked ominously. Oliver’s first words were: “How’s my mum?”
Miss Emily froze. She hadn’t even asked.
“Critical care. No visitors yet.” The lie tasted bitter. “She’ll pull through.”
“Hope he rots in there,” Oliver hissed, yanking his sleeves over mottled wrists.
“Any other family? Grandparents? Aunts?”
“Dunno. Doubt they’d want me.” His voice cracked. “Thanks for coming, Miss.” That look again—like he’d pinned all his hopes on her. “Can I write to you?”
“Of course.” She fished out a scrap of paper with her address.
He gripped it like a lifeline. “You’re kind. I like you. A lot. I know I’m just some kid, but I’ll grow up. Wait for me, okay?”
It should’ve been laughable—this gangly boy with his soap-opera declaration—but her throat tightened. She wanted to ruffle his hair, promise it would all be fine. Instead, she nodded and left before the tears escaped.
Two days later, Mr. Edwards summoned her.
“Oliver’s mum passed. Closed-casket funeral—counselor thought it best he didn’t see. But here’s the silver lining: paternal grandmother turned up. Taking him to Bristol. Paperwork’s sorted.”
He studied her. “You’re young, pretty—kids get attached.” The emphasis wasn’t subtle.
“I’ve no idea what you mean,” she lied. Oliver’s lovestruck stares were hardly covert.
“Teen crushes fade. He’ll forget; so should you.”
She left scarlet-cheeked. Oliver was a smart boy dealt a rubbish hand. At least he could still feel—if hearts hardened too young, they rarely thawed.
Next morning, she told 8B Oliver was moving to Bristol with his nan. “He’ll write,” she promised, ignoring the winks exchanged.
The first letter arrived three weeks later—shaky handwriting, Bristol’s drizzle already seeping into the paper. School was close, nan was strict but didn’t hit, missed his friends… PS: I’ll come back.
She replied with class updates, recommended books (Tolkien, not Verkin), kept it cordial. A year later, she met Daniel at a pub quiz. Six months after that, they married. She left her mum instructions to forward any letters from Oliver. None came.
Daniel despised her job. “You could be translating for MPs, jetting to Brussels! Instead, you’re stuck with these snotty brats.” Their rows escalated until the day she came home early—and spotted him through a café window, fingers interlaced with a blonde. That evening’s “discussion” ended with her suitcase on her mum’s doorstep.
At dinner, nausea hit. Her mum’s diagnosis was swift: “You’re pregnant. Ring Daniel.”
Ske refused. The test confirmed it. Mum stormed to Daniel’s flat; returned spitting fury. “Claims it’s not his! That you’ve been ‘carrying on’ with colleagues. I’ll drag him to court for child support.”
***
Six years later
Spring in Winchester arrived aggressively pink. Puddles swallowed the pavement as Miss Emily hurried home, savoring the warmth. Daycare pickup wasn’t for another hour.
A figure stepped into her path near a colossal puddle. She sidestepped; he mirrored her.
“Hello, Miss Hart.”
The man—tall, broad-shouldered, grinning—was unrecognizable until he said, “Oliver Thompson. Ten years. Still remember me?”
“Oliver?!” She gaped. The scrawny boy had vanished beneath stubble and a suit.
He guided her around the puddle. “Fancy a coffee?”
The café—that café—gave her pause. But inside, over Earl Grey, he spilled updates: engineering degree, job at an aerospace firm, nan’s passing.
“Your dad?”
“Still in our old flat with some woman. Wants nothing to do with me.” He leaned in. “I kept tabs on you. James Cooper sneaked photos during parents’ evenings. Nearly lost it when you married.”
“So, was that your doing?”
“Could’ve been,” he winked. “I visited before, you know. Waited till I had something to offer—flat, car, steady pay.”
“You’re twenty-three! Plenty of girls your—”
“Why didn’t you reply to my letters?”
The answer struck like a slap: Mum never passed them along.
He misinterpreted her silence. “Thought I’d forget you? I’ve loved you since Year 8. Your daughter needs a dad. I know what that’s like.”
“Oliver—”
“Try ‘Nick’ now. And age is just a number.”
At home, she replayed his words. It’s nostalgia, she told herself. He’ll meet someone his age, regret this.
But then he called. And called. Hours dissolved as they debated books, his improving French, her correcting his accent. When he didn’t ring, she’d catch herself scrolling to his contact.
Half-term arrived. Mum was in Cornwall. The doorbell rang—her daughter, Lily, flung it open before she could intervene.
“Delivery for Miss Hart,” Nick announced, handing Lily roses and her mother a dollhouse-sized box.
“Mixed them up!” He swapped them with a grin.
Later, over wine, he whispered, “Come to Bristol. Just visit. Hate it? I’ll drive you back Sunday.”
Lily’s pleading eyes decided it.
They left at dawn. As Lily napped in the backseat, Nick outlined his grand plan: move in, fresh start. Her counterarguments fizzled.
Days blurred—Bristol’s harbourside,Years later, as she watched Lily and their own curly-haired toddler chase butterflies in the garden—Nick’s laughter mingling with theirs—Emily realized some love stories simply refuse to follow the rules, and that’s exactly what makes them perfect.
