Margaret Clarke watched over her pupil while his mother worked the night shift. No one could have guessed what would unfold.
It was midNovember when Margaret first noticed that Sammy Green had stopped attending his classes. At first she blamed the autumn chill and the usual viruses. A week passed, then another, and still the boy was absent. During breaks she found herself waiting for the empty desk by the window, the one where Sammy always placed his beloved blue maths notebookonly now the desk seemed erased from the classrooms memory.
By the end of the second week anxiety clawed at her. The parents had not called, left no notenothing. That was odd. Sammy had always been diligent, quiet but eager, a maths enthusiast whose notebooks were immaculate. It cant be that simple, Margaret thought, flipping through the attendance register.
After school she marched to the reception office.
Mrs. Whitaker, do you happen to know where Sammy Green is? she asked, taking a seat at the desk. He hasnt turned up for ages.
The secretary lifted her glasses, peered over a stack of papers and replied dryly,
Nobodys called. Maybe theres trouble at home again. You know the area, dont you?
Margaret knew the neighbourhood wellrows of weatherworn terraced houses with peeling paint, courtyards littered with rubbish, noisy gangs of teenagers occupying every corner shop, and endless neighbour squabbles that seeped through thin walls.
She frowned.
But he has a mother, doesnt he?
Yes, he does, Whitaker said curtly. But what kind of mother are we talking about?
Without a word Margaret stood.
Ill sort it out myself, she muttered, pulling on her coat.
Dont bother, love, the secretary grumbled. If you want to look, go ahead.
Margaret didnt answer. She hurried across the school yard, one thought pulsing in her mind: what had happened to Sammy?
The hallway of the Green residence reeked of damp and stale smoke. A flickering bulb cast a weak glow over the stairwell, the steps slick with grime. She climbed to the third floor and knocked on a door painted a faded brown.
Is anyone home? she called, but only silence answered.
She knocked again, louder. After a minute the door cracked ajar, and a slender boy peered out.
Miss Clarke? his voice trembled.
Sammy, hello. Why arent you at school? Whats going on?
He said nothing, his face gaunt, cheeks hollow, dark bruises under his eyes.
Will you let me in? Margaret asked gently.
Sammy glanced over his shoulder as if checking for hidden eyes, then opened the door wider.
The flat was cramped and untidy. In the corner a little girl, about three, was fiddling with a plastic spoon. Sammy shut the door behind Margaret so the child wouldnt feel the chill from the hallway.
Thats my sister, Molly, he whispered.
Sammy, tell me whats happening, Margaret said firmly, taking a seat. Wheres your mother?
At work, he muttered, hanging his head.
Why isnt Molly at nursery?
Mum never got around to it. She said she didnt have the time.
Margaret sighed.
So youre looking after her while Mums away?
Sammy nodded.
What about school?
He hesitated, then murmured, I cant. I cant leave Molly alone. Shes too little.
A tight knot formed in Margarets chest. She had never heard a student speak of such burdens.
Sammy, have you eaten today? she asked, eyes softening.
He shrugged. I dont know maybe this morning.
She stood. I cant leave you like this. Stay here; Ill be back soon.
Where are you going? he asked, worry creeping into his voice.
For food, she replied, pulling her coat tighter. And help.
Sammy opened his mouth to argue, then fell silent.
She stepped out, phone in hand, aware that abandoning these children was not an option.
An hour later she returned, bags heavy with groceries. Sammy opened the door, his eyes wary but a little less frightened.
Youre back? he asked.
Of course, Margaret said brightly, hauling the sacks inside. Wheres the kitchen?
He pointed uncertainly. She set the bags down: fresh bread, a bottle of milk, a bag of oats, a few apples, even a packet of biscuits. Sammy stared at the spread, eyes widening.
This all for us? he whispered.
Who else would it be for? Margaret smiled. Wheres the frying pan?
What are you going to do with all this? he asked, cautious.
Im going to cook dinner, she said, firm. And you take Molly and play.
Sammy lingered in the doorway, fists clenched, his voice barely a whisper, Are you really going to do all this yourself?
Margaret rolled up her sleeves, looked him straight in the eye and replied, Of course. Who else but me?
She cracked eggs, poured butter into a pan, and the kitchen filled with the sizzle of frying. Sammy watched, unsure how to respond.
Sam, move along, she said softly. Mollys probably bored by now.
Molly, clutching a doll, peeked from the corner. Shes always quiet, Sammy muttered.
Its time to brighten her up, Margaret teased. Dinner will be ready soon.
Reluctantly, Sammy left the kitchen. Within twenty minutes the table was set: scrambled eggs, sliced bread, mugs of tea, and a small dish of apples.
Dinners ready! Margaret announced. Eat up!
Sammy and Molly sat down. Molly stared at the food, then, after a tentative bite, her face lit up.
Its yummy, she whispered, spoon in hand.
Of course it is, Margaret winked. I put a lot of love into it.
Sammy ate in silence, glancing at Margaret now and then, until finally he asked, Why are you doing this?
Margaret rested her fork, met his gaze. Because you matter to me, Sammy. Youre my student, and I care about you. Thats normal.
A flush rose to his cheeks; he buried his face in his plate.
After the meal Margaret began clearing the table. Sammy reached for a plate, but she stopped him.
Go tidy Mollys toys. Ive got this.
Ten minutes later she reentered the room; everything was spotless, toys gathered, floor swept.
Good work, she praised. Tomorrow Ill speak to Mrs. Patel, the neighbour. She can drop by now and then while your mums at work.
The neighbour? Aunt Lena? Sammy asked, surprised.
Yes, shes kind. Ill arrange it, and youll come to my house for lessons. You cant keep missing school.
Come to you? Why? he asked, wary.
For tutoring, she replied. You cant keep skipping classes.
He hesitated, then nodded. Alright.
A small smile tugged at Margarets lips. See? Everything will settle, youll see.
Thus began their evenings at Margarets modest cottage. After school she invited Sammy over, and together they dove into maths and literature, sometimes setting books aside for simple conversation.
Miss Clarke, Sammy said one day, doodling circles in his notebook, what if you hadnt shown up?
Someone else would have, Margaret answered with a smile.
No, he shook his head earnestly. No one would have.
Margaret considered him, then changed the subject. By the way, youre in my maths class, not philosophy. What about problem three?
Sammy blushed, then threw himself back at the equations. He knew her help meant more than homework checks.
Gradually his school life improved. Teachers stopped nagging, neighbours noticed he no longer loitered aimlessly. Occasionally, as Margaret walked him home, she saw his mother, exhausted after a shift, still trying to find time for her children.
Thank you, a neighbour said one evening outside the flats. If it werent for you, I dont know what would have happened to Sammy.
Dont mention it, Margaret waved off. Hes bright; he just needed a push.
Her voice carried a warm pride.
Months passed. Sammy grew more confident, stopped questioning why Margaret spent her evenings with him, and simply accepted her support, repaying it with determination.
How do you manage all this, Miss Clarke? he asked one afternoon, leafing through a history book. You have a job too.
I manage because youre clever, Sammy. You pick things up quickly, she replied, smiling. His cheeks reddened, but her words lodged firmly in his mind, driving him to work harder.
Six months later, he returned to class, grades soaring. Margarets heart swelled each time a A appeared in his diary.
Years slipped by. Margaret retired from teaching, settled into quietude in her cosy cottage. Former colleagues visited, sharing school gossip, lamenting changes. She listened, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the children shed helped.
One scorching summer afternoon a knock sounded at her door. She wiped her hands on the apron, opened it cautiously, and found a tall young man holding a bunch of wildflowers.
Good afternoon, Margaret Clarke, he said, his voice unmistakably familiar.
Sammy? she squinted, recognition dawning.
He smiled, nodding. Its me. I thought Id pay you a visit.
Come in, she stammered, opening the door wider.
They sat at the kitchen table for hours. Sammy spoke of university, of his mother finally landing a steady job, of the life hed built.
Thank you for everything you did for me, he said suddenly, his tone serious.
Oh, Sammy, Margaret replied gently, I only helped a little.
No, he insisted. You gave me a future. Without you, Id have been lost.
Tears welled in her eyes. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy, she whispered, voice trembling.
They chatted long into the evening, reminiscing. When he finally left, Margaret lingered in the quiet, gazing at the flowers on the table. She realised that sometimes the greatest gift is simply being there when someone truly needs you.
