I got up before the sun, while the bedroom was still lit by a weak, grey glow. In the kitchen I flicked the kettle on and peered out at the back garden: the oak by the front steps already showed the first splashes of yellow, and a thin mist hung over the pavement.
Six months ago, over a cup of tea, my wife Emily and I decided to become a foster family. Of the dozens of applications, one lanky teenager with wary blue eyes caught our eye. The little ones get placed faster, and at fifteen his chances are slim, I remembered saying then. The medical exams, the interview, the fosterparent training course stretched over months, and each agency kept telling us, Dont expect miracles, help will come, but youll face plenty of hurdles.
Im fortyeight, an engineer at the railway depot, working rotating shifts. Emily is a teaching assistant at a nearby college. By six in the evening shes usually off work. Our life ran on a steady rhythm: jobs, Sunday walks, bargainhour cinema. It was that tidy routine that suddenly seemed shaky. Now or never, I said, signing the last piece of paperwork.
At the end of August we drove to the childrens home. The interview room smelled of disinfectant and lukewarm porridge. The boy sat on the windowsill, swinging a foot in a scuffed sneaker, answering in monosyllables. My joke about cassette players earned only a shrug. On the way back I squeezed Emilys handwords failed me.
The home prepared a separate room for James: walls painted a soft bluegrey, a desk, a new bed and a small speakera for music gift. On the desk lay a clean notebook and a pen.
The councils van pulled up near our gate around midday. The driver handed over two bags and a battered backpack. James slipped into the hallway without a word, set the bags against the wall and clutched the backpack to his chest. Its yours now, Emily whispered. He nodded, speechless.
At lunchsoup and chicken pattiesJames ate quickly, never meeting our eyes. I talked about the secondary school his transfer was already arranged for; Emily mentioned the regional allowance: Thats your money, well spend it together. His only reply was a flat, Can we skip the ruler on the first of September? We have to, Emily answered gently.
EarlySeptember rain drummed a damp chill onto the roof. A week later the friction began. James started coming home late: Out with the lads. Once he forgot his key, and Emily stood waiting at the door, missing the staff meeting. I suggested we build a computer for the school club, but he buried himself in his phone.
The night before the weekend a box of sweets vanished. I asked quietly what had happened. Buy a new one, James snapped, slamming the bedroom door. I reminded him, sternly, about mutual respect, but my words fell flat.
School life worsened. The class teacher called Emily almost daily about tardiness and disputes. James hid his diary under the mattress, declaring he didnt have to obey stupid rules. The official fostercare paperwork offered little comfort when a tired teen in headphones sat behind our door.
By midSeptember the flat grew chilly. The radiators wouldnt turn on until after the fifteenth. I set the kettle to boil, Emily wrapped herself in an old cardigan, and James sat behind a closed door under the desk lamp. Each of us felt the cold in our own way.
On a Saturday at dawn a dull knock roused Emily. In Jamess room his backpack lay open, clothes strewn about. Barefoot, he rummaged in the side pocket. Looking for the charger, he muttered, avoiding her gaze. An hour later Emily discovered two pounds missing from the wallet on the shelf.
We called James in for a talk. Did you see the money? I asked. No, he said. Emily tried to soften it: If you took it, tell us and well sort it out together. He stayed silent, arms crossed. I then said firmly, In our house we dont take what isnt ours. He exploded, This isnt my home! You play nice, then hand me over anyway! He bolted for the stairwell. I caught him, gripping his sleeve. A draft sneaked in through the halfopen window. Give the money back and well talk, I said. I didnt take it. He jerked, and a few notes slipped from his pocket. I stepped back, realizing Id been too harsh, while Emily, standing in the doorway, felt the cold draft and the sting of unrecoverable trust.
James gathered the cash and handed it to Emily. His lips trembled. You still wont believe me, he whispered. In that instant Emily decided the conversation must happen then and there. She gestured for both of us to sit down.
The draft ceased when the door shut. Emily, still clutching the notes, walked to the kitchen and placed them on the edge of the table. Sit, she said. I and James lowered ourselves onto the stools; tension hung in the air, now shared by the three of us.
Emily poured hot tea. Steam rose over the cups, marking the start of a new scene. Were here because we chose you deliberately, she began, keeping her voice steady. We all make mistakes, but running away isnt the answer.
I nodded quietly. I was scared youd think we didnt care. The real fear is losing you before we even began.
James averted his eyes, twisted the strap on his backpack and exhaled, I wanted to show the lads I had money, thought theyd respect me. Now I see I messed up.
Emily heard not arrogance but bewilderment. She handed him the notes, Well treat these as your allowance. Every spend well discuss together. Agree? For the first time James looked her straight in the eye and nodded.
We talked long into the nightabout school, about rules being a safety net, not a trap; about the fostercare psychologist we could all see. I suggested we start small: a shared schedule and one phonefree evening each week. James didnt argue, just asked if he could sometimes invite his new friends over. The answer was brief: Yes, but let us meet them first.
By evening the wind had calmed, and a few stray leaves drifted lazily across the courtyard. Emily stepped onto the balcony and felt the warmth from the radiators, arriving earlier than promised. She smiled and returned to the kitchen, where I was noting expenses and James was ticking off a line in his notebook: Weekend trip to the lake house.
On Sunday the three of us drove out of town. The cool air carried the scent of pine, and the motorway throbbed with traffic. I showed James how to fix an old fence, while Emily assembled sandwiches on the kitchen table. Nothing heroic happened, but when we headed back, Emily noticed Jamess backpack zipped neatly on the back seat.
Late that night, back home, James placed his keys on the shared hallway shelf and said softly, Tomorrow Ill come straight from school. Need to stick to the schedule. Those simple words rang louder than any promise. Emily felt a space inside widen, making room for a future where mistakes could be mended together.
Outside, a streetlamp caught the last yellow leaves against the dark. September was drawing to a close. We still have many talks, school reports and psychologist visits ahead, but weve taken the first steptogether.
