The headteachers aide had been watching over his sister while their mother was on shift. No one could have guessed what would happen next.
Margaret Harper, the schools senior mathematics tutor, noticed that Tom Harding had not turned up for lessons since midNovember. At first she blamed the usual autumn viruses a cold, a cough, nothing out of the ordinary. But a week slipped by, then another, and Tom was still missing. Between classes she found herself staring at the empty desk by the window, waiting for his blue maths notebook to appear, as if the desk itself had been erased from the classrooms familiar layout.
By the end of the second week her anxiety was a physical knot. No word from his parents no phone call, no note. It was strange. Tom had always been diligent, quiet but keen, a lover of numbers who never missed a lesson and whose workbooks were immaculate. It cant be that simple, Margaret muttered as she flipped through the class register.
After school she made her way to the school office.
Mrs. Clarke, do you happen to know whats happened to Tom Harding? she asked, sliding onto the chair at the reception desk. He hasnt been seen for ages.
The secretary looked up from her paperwork, adjusted her spectacles and gave a dry chuckle.
No ones called. Might be another problem at home. You know how it is in that estate.
Margaret knew the estate well. Rows of terraced houses with flaking paint, back gardens littered with rubbish, teenagers congregating on the corner benches, endless squabbles that echoed through thin walls.
She frowned.
But you cant just leave him like that. He has a mother, doesnt he?
Mother is a generous term, isnt it? Mrs. Clarke replied bluntly. What kind of mother are we talking about?
Margaret rose without a word.
Ill handle it myself, she said quietly, pulling her coat tighter.
Figure it out if you want, the secretary muttered as she turned away. Good luck, youll need it.
Margaret hurried across the playground, the question looping in her mind like a relentless drum: what had become of Tom?
The stairwell of the Harding flat reeked of damp and stale tobacco. A flickering bulb cast eerie shadows on the sootstained steps. She climbed to the third floor and knocked on the door, its brown paint peeling away.
Is anyone home? she called, but only silence answered.
She knocked again, louder. After a minute the door cracked open and a gaunt boy peered out.
Mrs. Harper? his voice trembled.
Tom, hello. Why arent you at school? Whats happened?
He said nothing, his eyes hollow, cheeks sunken, dark bruises mottling the skin under his eyes.
Will you let me in? Margaret asked gently.
Tom glanced over his shoulder, as if checking for unseen watchers, then stepped aside.
The flat was cramped and untidy. In the corner a threeyearold girl, Lily, was fussing with a plastic spoon. Tom shut the door quickly, shielding the child from the chill of the hallway.
Thats my sister, he whispered.
Tom, tell me whats going on, Margaret said, taking a seat on a wobbly chair. Wheres your mother?
At work, he muttered, looking down.
Why isnt Lily in nursery?
Mother never had time to arrange it, he mumbled. She said she was too busy.
Margaret exhaled slowly.
So youre looking after her while Mums away?
Tom nodded.
And school?
He hesitated, then whispered, I cant make it. I cant leave Lily alone.
A tight knot formed in Margarets chest. Her pupils had never spoken of such hardship.
Tom, have you eaten anything today?
He shrugged. I dont know maybe breakfast.
She stood.
Fine, this cant continue. Stay here. Ill be back soon.
Where are you going? he asked, worry biting his voice.
Get food, she replied, pulling her coat tighter. And help.
Tom opened his mouth to protest but closed it.
Margaret stepped out, phone tucked into her pocket. She knew she could not simply abandon the children.
An hour later she returned, bags heavy with provisions. Tom opened the door, his expression still wary but a little less frightened.
Youre back? he asked.
Of course, she answered brightly, setting the bags down. Wheres the kitchen?
He pointed shakily toward a narrow hallway.
She unpacked loaves of bread, a jug of milk, a bag of rice, a few apples, even a tin of biscuits. Tom watched, eyes widening.
Is all this for us? he asked.
Who else would it be for? Margaret smiled. Wheres your pan?
What are you going to do with it? Tom asked, suspicion creeping in.
Cook dinner, she said firmly. Now go play with Lily.
Tom lingered in the doorway, his fists clenched.
You really mean to do all this yourself? he asked, voice wavering.
Margaret rolled up her sleeves, looked him straight in the eye and said, Of course. Who else if not me?
She cracked eggs, melted butter in a pan, and the kitchen filled with the hiss of frying. Tom watched, unsure how to react.
Tom, get moving, she said softly. Your sisters probably bored.
Lily sat with a rag doll, eyes flicking toward the kitchen.
Shes always so quiet, Tom muttered.
Then lets cheer her up, Margaret replied with a grin. Dinner will be ready soon.
Reluctantly Tom stepped out of the kitchen, and Margaret continued cooking. Within twenty minutes the table was set: scrambled eggs, sliced bread, mugs of tea, and a small dish of apples.
Everythings ready! she called. Eat up!
Tom and Lily sat down. Lily stared at the food nervously, then took a bite and brightened.
Yummy, she whispered, clutching the spoon.
Delicious, isnt it? Margaret winked. I tried my best.
Tom ate in silence, shooting quick glances at Margaret, then finally asked, Why are you doing all this?
Margaret placed her fork down, meeting his gaze.
Because you matter to me, Tom. Youre my student, and I care about you. Thats what people do.
His cheeks flushed and he buried his face in his plate.
After dinner Margaret began clearing the table. Tom reached for the dishes, but she stopped him.
Go on, put the toys away with Lily. Ive got this.
Ten minutes later she reentered the room. The floor was spotless, toys stacked, the carpet swept.
Good job, both of you, she praised. Tomorrow Ill speak to Mrs. Patel, the neighbour. She can pop in now and then while your mums at work.
Neighbour? Aunt Linda? Tom asked, surprised.
Yes, shes very kind. Ill arrange it, and youll start coming over to my house for tuition, Margaret said. You cant keep missing school.
Tom hesitated, then nodded.
Alright.
Margaret smiled. Thats the spirit. Everything will settle, youll see.
Thus began their evenings at Margarets modest semidetached. She took Tom home after her lessons, and together they dove into maths and literature, sometimes setting books aside to simply talk.
One day I wondered what would have happened if you hadnt shown up, Tom said once, doodling circles in his notebook.
Someone else would have, she replied, smiling.
No, he shook his head seriously. No one would have.
Margaret glanced at him, then changed the subject. By the way, youre on the geometry worksheet, not philosophy. Hows question three?
Tom blushed, then turned back to the problems, knowing her help meant more than homework.
Slowly his school life improved. Teachers stopped scolding, neighbours noticed he no longer roamed the estate aimlessly. Occasionally, as Margaret walked him home, she saw Toms mother, exhausted after a night shift, trying to spend a few minutes with her children.
Thank you, a neighbour once said, meeting Margaret at the landing. If you hadnt stepped in, I dont know what would have happened to Tom.
Dont mention it, Margaret waved it off. Hes a bright lad, just needed a nudge.
Pride warmed her voice.
Months passed. Tom grew confident, no longer questioning why Margaret spent her evenings with him; he simply accepted her support and repaid it with determination.
How do you manage it all, Mrs. Harper? he asked once, thumbing through a history book. You have your own job.
I manage because youre clever, Tom. You pick things up fast, she replied, smiling.
He blushed, her words settling deep within him, driving him to work even harder.
Six months later he returned to school, grades soaring, his diary now glittering with As. Margaret felt a quiet joy watching her effort bear fruit.
Years slipped by. Margaret retired, settled into a quiet cottage on the outskirts of town. Former colleagues dropped by, swapping stories about changed curricula and restless pupils.
One sweltering summer afternoon the doorbell rang. Margaret wiped her hands on a tea towel and opened it to find a tall young man holding a bouquet of wildflowers.
Good afternoon, Mrs. Harper, he said, his voice instantly familiar.
Tom? she asked, eyes widening.
He smiled and nodded. Its me. I thought Id pay a visit.
Come in, she said, opening the door wider, a hint of disbelief in her tone.
They sat at her kitchen table for a long while. Tom spoke of university, of his mother finally landing a stable job, of the life hed built.
Thank you for everything you did for me, he said suddenly, his tone earnest.
Dont be ridiculous, Tom, Margaret replied softly. I only helped a little.
No, he insisted. You gave me a future. Without you, Id have been lost.
Tears welled in her eyes.
The important thing is youre happy, she whispered, her voice trembling.
They talked long into the evening, reminiscing about the past. When Tom finally left, Margaret lingered, looking at the flowers on the table, realizing that perhaps the greatest legacy is simply being there when someone truly needs you.
