LET ME REMIND YOU “Miss Smith, I can’t get this swirl right,” sighed little Tom sadly, dabbing his paintbrush at the disobedient green leaf curling the wrong way on the flower he’d drawn. “Just a gentler touch, sweetheart—imagine you’re tickling your palm with a feather. There, that’s it! Perfect! That’s not just a swirl, that’s a real masterpiece!” smiled the elderly teacher. “So, Tom, who’s this beautiful artwork for?” “For Mum!” Tom beamed, having finally tamed his stubborn leaf. “It’s her birthday today, and this is my present!” Tom’s voice brimmed with pride at his teacher’s praise. “Oh, your mum’s a lucky lady, Tom. Now don’t close your sketchbook yet, let the paint dry or it’ll be smudged. When you get home, you can tear out this masterpiece so it’s perfect for her. She’s absolutely going to love it!” Mrs. Smith cast one last look at the dark head bent over the page. Smiling to herself, she returned to her desk. A gift for Mum, indeed! She couldn’t remember when she’d last seen such a lovely drawing. Tom certainly had a talent for art. She really ought to ring his mother and suggest signing him up for art classes—such a gift shouldn’t be left to waste. And she’d ask her former pupil if she liked the present, too. Mrs. Smith herself couldn’t stop looking at the flowers blooming on the page. They seemed to almost come alive with their curling leaves. Oh, he’s just like his mum! Lorna was an incredible little artist at his age too… ***** “Mrs. Smith, it’s Lorna, Tom Carter’s mum,” came a call to the teacher’s flat that evening, the voice of a young woman sounding brisk and tired. “Just letting you know Tom won’t be in tomorrow.” “Hello, Lorna, is everything alright?” Mrs. Smith asked with gentle curiosity. “Well, it’s not! The little tyke ruined my whole birthday!” The voice crackled with irritation. “Now he’s got a fever—paramedics just left.” “Oh dear, Lorna, he seemed perfectly fine when he left school with your birthday gift…” “You mean those blotches?” “Blotches? Oh come on, Lorna! He drew you the most wonderful flowers! I was going to call and ask about art school—” “I don’t know what flowers you’re on about, but the last thing I expected was a flea-bitten bundle!” “A bundle? What are you talking about?” Mrs. Smith was thoroughly confused, listening to Lorna’s agitated explanation, her frown deepening by the minute. “Lorna, would you mind if I popped over? Just for a short visit—I do live just across the road…” A few minutes later, having got her former pupil’s reluctant agreement, Mrs. Smith grabbed her thick old album of faded photos and treasured childhood drawings by her very first class, and stepped out into the street. The kitchen was in chaos when Lorna let her in. Clearing away the birthday cake and stacking dirty plates in the sink, Tom’s mum began a litany: How he came home late, trailing mud and water from his bag and clothes… How he pulled a soaking wet puppy from under his jumper, stinking to high heaven, all because he’d clambered into a freezing pit after it—the same pit a gang of local lads had chucked it into. Ruined textbooks, the ink-drenched sketchbook—“those horrible blotches.” And then the fever, spiking to thirty-nine in barely an hour… The guests had all left, cake untouched; the ambulance crew had stern words about her lack of attention… “So I took the mutt back to the tip, when Tom finally fell asleep,” Lorna finished shortly. “His sketchbook’s drying by the radiator—there’s nothing left, not even the flowers! Looks like so much rubbish.” She snorted irritably. She didn’t notice how Mrs. Smith’s expression clouded over with every sentence, growing ever darker as Lorna spoke. And when she realised what had happened to the puppy Tom had rescued, Mrs. Smith was thunderous. She gave Lorna a hard stare with kind, sorrowful eyes, brushed the battered album affectionately, and quietly began to speak… About the green swirls, the blossoming flowers… a little boy’s effort and courage. About a heart that wouldn’t put up with injustice, unlike those bullies who’d dumped a living creature in a ditch. She led Lorna to the window: “See that pit there? Tom could’ve drowned, it’s not just the puppy who was in danger. But do you think he thought about that? Maybe all he thought of was making sure the flowers on his page didn’t get ruined for your birthday gift…” Mrs. Smith looked directly at her former pupil. “Do you remember? Back in ’94, sat on the school bench in tears, cuddling that scruffy kitten you rescued from the estate boys? How the whole class stroked it, and we waited for your mum. How upset you were when your parents, in a panic, threw it outside for being a ‘flea-bitten bundle’… Lucky for you, they changed their minds and let it back in! So let me remind you! Tisha the kitten you couldn’t bear to say goodbye to. Mufty, the big-eared mutt you walked to school with all through your childhood. The injured rook you nursed in the nature corner… Mrs. Smith pulled from the album a big photo: a little girl in a white pinafore, cradling a fluffy kitten, smiling at the crowd of classmates. Her voice was gentle but firm. “Let me remind you of the kindness that bloomed in your heart, brightening even the hardest times…” From the album, a faded childhood drawing of a little girl clutching a shaggy kitten in one hand and her mother’s hand with the other slipped onto the table. “If it were up to me,” Mrs. Smith’s voice now held a trace of sternness, “I’d have kissed Tom AND the puppy and framed those colourful blots! There’s no better gift a mother can receive than having her child become a good person.” As she spoke, Lorna’s face softened, her anxious eyes flickering toward Tom’s bedroom door. Her hands gripped the battered sketchbook. “Mrs. Smith! Please—could you watch Tom for just a few minutes? Please—I need to go out. I’ll be quick!” Under Mrs. Smith’s steady gaze, Lorna darted out, coat hastily pulled on, and ran towards the landfill in the gathering dusk, calling and searching through boxes and bags, glancing anxiously back at her home. Would he forgive her? ***** “Tom, who’s that nosing about in the flowers there? That’s your friend, Daisy, isn’t it?” “That’s right, Mrs. Smith! You can tell?” “Of course I can! Look at that star-shaped patch on her paw! I remember you and your mum scrubbing those muddy paws…” Mrs. Smith chuckled. “And now I wash her paws every single day!” Tom announced proudly. “Mum says, ‘If you’ve got a friend, it’s your job to take care of them!’ She even got us a special tub for it!” “She’s a brilliant mum,” Mrs. Smith smiled. “Are you doing another picture for her?” “Yes! Want to put it in a frame for her. She’s still got those blotches in a frame, you know, and she always looks at them and smiles. But why would anyone smile at blotches, Mrs. Smith?” “Blotches, Tom?” Mrs. Smith smirked. “Maybe you would, if the blotches were made with love. Tell me, how’s art school going? Are you enjoying it?” “Oh yes! Soon I’ll be able to draw mum’s portrait! She’ll love that. But for now—” Tom rummaged in his backpack and brought out a folded piece of paper. “This is for you, from Mum—she draws too, now.” Mrs. Smith opened the paper, squeezing Tom’s shoulder as she sat beside him. On the white page, bursting with colour, was a beaming Tom, his hand on the faithful rescue dog’s head. Beside him stood a miniature, fair-haired schoolgirl hugging a kitten in an old-fashioned uniform. And standing behind her desk, half-hidden among books, smiling with quiet pride and ageless wisdom, was Mrs. Smith herself. In every tiny detail, every brushstroke, she felt the deep, boundless pride of motherhood. Mrs. Smith brushed away a tear and smiled warmly—there, in the corner of the picture, picked out in delicate flower-hued lettering, was a single word: “Remember.”