Dear Diary,
Ive been looking after Thomas ever since his mother took the night shift at the factory. It never occurred to anyone that his attendance would slip in midNovember. At first I told myself he was simply illautumn coughs, a nasty virus, nothing out of the ordinary. Yet a week passed, then another, and Thomas was still absent. Between lessons I found myself lingering, hoping he would walk into the classroom, sit at the windowside desk and pull out his wellworn blue maths notebook. That desk, however, seemed to have vanished from my mental picture of the room.
By the end of the second week my worry had become unbearable. Id heard nothing from his parentsno phone call, no note. It was odd. Thomas had always been a diligent pupil, quiet but industrious. He loved numbers, rarely missed lessons, and his work was always spotless. It cant just happen like this, I thought, leafing through the class register.
After school I stopped by the school office.
Mrs. Clarke, do you happen to know whats become of Thomas Green? I asked, perching on the stool by the desk. He hasnt turned up for ages.
Mrs. Clarke looked up from her paperwork, adjusted her glasses and sighed.
No ones called. Maybe theres trouble at home again. You know the area.
I knew the area wellrows of ageing terraces with peeling paint, courtyards where rubbish lingered by the front doors, noisy groups of teenagers staking a claim on every street corner, and the perpetual arguments of neighbours echoing through thin walls.
I frowned.
But you cant just leave him like that. He does have a mother, doesnt he?
Yes, he does, Mrs. Clarke replied dryly. But what sort of mother?
I rose in silence.
Ill sort it out myself, I muttered, pulling my coat tighter.
Whatever you say, she muttered after me. If you want to look, go ahead.
I didnt answer. I hurried across the school yard, the question looping in my mind: what had happened to Thomas?
The stairwell of the Green family flat reeked of damp and stale tobacco. A flickering bulb lit the stairwell, and the steps were stained with grime. I climbed to the third floor and knocked on the door, its brown paint flaking away.
Is anyone home? I called, but only silence answered.
I knocked again, louder. After a minute the door creaked open a fraction, and Thomas peered out.
Mrs. Hughes? his voice trembled.
Thomas, hello. Why arent you coming to school? Whats going on?
He said nothing. His face was drawn, cheeks hollow, dark circles under his eyes.
Will you let me in? I asked gently.
He glanced around as if checking for anyone behind the door, then swung it wider.
Inside the flat was small and untidy. In the corner a little girl, about three, was fiddling with a plastic spoon. Thomas shut the door behind me so the child wouldnt feel the chill from the hallway.
This is my sister, Poppy, he whispered.
Thomas, tell me whats happening, I said, taking a seat. Wheres your mother?
At work, he replied, dropping his gaze.
And why isnt Poppy at nursery?
Mum didnt have time to arrange it, he muttered. She said she was busy.
I sighed.
So youre looking after her while Mums away?
Thomas nodded.
And school?
He hesitated, then whispered, I cant. I cant leave Poppy alone. Shes too small.
A knot tightened in my chest. My pupils never spoke of such hardships.
Thomas, I said softly, meeting his eyes, have you eaten today?
He shrugged. Im not sure maybe this morning.
I stood up. That wont do. Stay here, Ill be right back.
Where are you going? he asked, uneasy.
To get food, I replied, pulling my coat tighter. And help.
He wanted to protest but said nothing.
I left the flat, phone in hand. I knew I couldnt just abandon those children.
An hour later I returned. Thomas opened the door again, this time his stare a little less frightened.
Youre back? he asked.
Of course, I replied cheerfully, stepping inside with heavy grocery bags. I promised, didnt I? Wheres your kitchen?
He pointed vaguely. I followed his direction, set the bags on the tablebread, milk, a bag of rice, apples, even a few biscuits. Thomas watched with widened eyes.
This is all for us? he asked.
Who else would it be for? I smiled. Wheres the pan?
What are you going to do with all this? he asked, wary.
Im going to make dinner, I said firmly. Now go play with Poppy.
Thomas lingered in the doorway, fists clenched. Are you really going to do it yourself? he asked doubtfully.
I rolled up my sleeves and said, Absolutely. Who else, if not me?
I cracked eggs, melted butter, heated the pan. The sizzle filled the tiny kitchen as I poured a splash of butter. Thomas watched, unsure how to react.
Thomas, why are you just standing there? I asked gently. Go keep Poppy company. Shes probably bored.
He glanced at the corner where Poppy sat with a doll, peeking at us.
Shes always so quiet, he murmured.
Then lets cheer her up, I said, smiling. Dinner will be ready soon.
Reluctantly he left the kitchen, and I kept cooking. Within twenty minutes the table was set: scrambled eggs, sliced bread, mugs of tea, and a small plate of sliced apples.
Dinners ready! I called. Come and eat!
Thomas and Poppy sat down. Poppy eyed the food shyly, then took a bite and brightened.
Its good, she whispered, clutching her spoon.
Of course it is, I winked. I put a lot of love into it.
Thomas ate quietly, stealing quick glances at me. Finally he asked, Why are you doing all this?
I set my fork down and looked at him. Because you matter to me, Thomas. Youre my student, and I care about you. Thats only natural.
His cheeks flushed and he buried his face in his plate.
After the meal I began clearing the table. Thomas tried to help, but I stopped him.
Why dont you put Poppys toys away? Ill finish here.
Ten minutes later I entered the living room: toys were gathered, the floor swept.
Good job, I praised. Tomorrow Ill speak to Mrs. Patel, the neighbour. She might be able to drop by and help while your mums at work.
The neighbour? Aunt Lena? Thomas asked, surprised.
Yes, shes very kind. Ill arrange it, and youll come to my house for lessons, too.
Come to you? Why? he asked cautiously.
For tutoring, I explained. You cant keep missing school.
He thought for a moment, then nodded. Alright.
I smiled. Everything will settle, youll see.
Thus began our evenings at my cottage. After my own lessons I took Thomas in, and we dived into maths and literature together. Sometimes we set the books aside and simply talked.
Mrs. Hughes, Thomas said one day, drawing circles in his notebook, I sometimes wonder what if you hadnt come?
Someone else would have, I replied, smiling.
No, he shook his head seriously. No one would have.
I glanced at him, then changed the subject. By the way, youre on maths, not philosophy. How are you getting on with question three?
He blushed, then returned to the problems. He knew my help meant more than just checking homework.
Gradually his school performance improved. Teachers stopped complaining, and neighbours noticed he no longer loitered aimlessly in the streets. Occasionally, walking him home, I saw his mother, exhausted after a night shift, still trying to spend a bit more time with her children.
Thank you, a neighbour once said as we met outside the block. If it hadnt been for you, I dont know what would have happened to Thomas.
Its nothing, I waved it off. Hes bright. He just needed a push.
A warm pride rose in my voice.
Months passed. Thomas grew more confident, no longer asking why I spent my evenings with him; he simply accepted my support and repaid it with hard work.
One day, he asked, leafing through a history book, how do you manage everything, Mrs. Hughes? You have your own job.
I manage because youre clever, Thomas. You pick things up quickly, I replied, smiling.
He looked away, a hint of embarrassment, but the words lodged in his mind. He threw himself into his studies with renewed vigor.
Six months later he was back in class, earning top marks. Seeing his progress filled me with joy.
Years later I retired from teaching, settled into a quiet cottage outside Birmingham. Former colleagues visited now and then, swapping stories about the changing school system. I listened, but my thoughts often drifted back to the children Id helped.
One scorching summer afternoon a knock came at the door. I wiped my hands on my apron and opened it to find a tall young man holding a bouquet of wildflowers.
Good afternoon, Mrs. Hughes, he said, his voice familiar and warm.
Thomas? I asked, surprised, squinting at the man.
He smiled and nodded. Yes, its me. I wanted to visit.
Come in, I said, stepping aside.
We sat at the kitchen table for a long while. He told me about university, about his mother finally landing a stable job, and about the life hed built.
Thank you for everything you did for me, he said suddenly, his tone earnest.
Oh, Thomas, I replied gently, I just gave you a little help.
No, he insisted. You gave me a future. Without you I wouldnt have made it.
Tears welled in my eyes. The important thing is youre happy, I whispered, my voice shaking slightly.
We talked long into the evening, reminiscing. When he finally left, I sat alone, looking at the flowers on the table, and realised that perhaps there is no greater purpose than being there when someone truly needs you.
