**Diary Entry – Wednesday, 8th May**
The bell rang, and the school corridors slowly emptied. Teachers ushered lingering students into classrooms, their voices echoing down the halls. Outside, the young leaves rustled, and the sun beckoned everyone into the spring air. Eleanor Wilson paused at the classroom door. Like her students, she longed to drop everything and wander through the city. With a sigh, she stepped inside. Year 7B rose noisily to greet her.
“Good morning. Sit down, please,” she said, moving to her desk.
“Who’s absent today?” She scanned the room quickly.
Emily Harrison, the class’s top student, stood and replied in English that Sarah Thompson was ill and Daniel Hartley was missing. Emily always answered promptly—her English was easily the best. A murmur rippled through the class.
“Michael, what happened to Daniel?” Eleanor switched to her native tongue. Michael Dawson lived next door to Daniel.
Everyone knew Daniel’s father had been released from prison last year, jobless and drunk, beating his wife mercilessly. Daniel got his share of bruises when he tried to defend her. He often came to school with fresh marks, changing for PE late to hide them. But everyone knew. Michael had told them.
Eleanor sympathised with Daniel. He was handsome, mature beyond his years—children from troubled homes grow up fast. He was sharp, picked things up quickly. Only English eluded him, though he tried.
After university, Eleanor had returned to her old school as an English teacher. She hadn’t wanted to leave her mother alone, so she hadn’t moved to London or taken a private school job like her peers.
The older years had a more experienced teacher. Eleanor got the younger ones. At first, they disrupted her lessons, but soon they warmed to her. She dressed formally, but beneath the stern facade, kindness and laughter peeked through. The girls copied her manners; the boys hid their crushes behind rough edges. This year, she’d become form tutor for Year 7B.
“Miss Wilson, his dad was drunk again last night. Beat Daniel’s mum. The whole street heard her screams. The ambulance took her to hospital—Daniel called them when his dad passed out. The police arrested his dad, took Daniel too, until they find family.”
“What?!” Eleanor gasped, scanning the room. The students waited, expecting something from her. What could she say?
“Alright. After school, I’ll go to the station and find out more.”
A quiet sigh of relief spread through the room.
Daniel’s face flashed in Eleanor’s mind. How many times had she asked if he needed help? He’d always shaken his head, terrified. Sometimes, in class, his intense gaze would fluster her, make her stumble over words.
The class held its breath.
“Okay, let’s begin,” she said, forcing cheer into her voice.
At break, Eleanor knocked on the headmaster’s door.
“Mr Edwards—Hartley—”
“I know, Eleanor. The police called. They’re searching for family. If they can’t find anyone, he’ll go into care. His father’s facing time. His mother… If she survives. Care’s no picnic either. Who’s worse—his brute of a father or bitter, unloved teenagers?”
“I want to see him—support him, find out more.”
“As his form tutor, you have every right. But don’t get too involved. I’ve seen it all.” He sighed, closing the conversation.
They let her see Daniel. The room had sickly green walls and cheap furniture.
“How’s Mum?” he asked immediately.
Eleanor faltered—she hadn’t thought to check.
“She’s in intensive care. Not allowed visitors yet. Try not to worry—she’ll be alright.” She hoped she sounded convincing.
“Will they lock him up? I hope they do.” Daniel’s voice burned with anger. He tugged his sleeve down, hiding fresh bruises.
“Do you have any family? Aunts, uncles?”
“Dunno. Even if I did, no one wants me. Thanks for coming, Miss Wilson.” His gaze sent a shiver through her. “Can I write to you?”
“Of course.” She hesitated. “I don’t know if you’ll have internet, but here’s my address and number.” She pressed a folded note into his hand.
“Thank you. You’re kind. I—I like you. A lot. I know I’m too young. But I’ll grow up. Wait for me?” His voice cracked with desperation.
The childish confession almost made her laugh, but pity cut deeper. She wanted to hug him, soothe him—but held back. He might mistake it for something else.
A policewoman interrupted. “Sorry—lunch is here.”
Time to leave.
“Stay strong. Call or write if you need anything.”
“Miss Wilson!” His voice broke. “Wait for me.”
She nodded and stepped out.
Tears pricked her eyes. *What will become of him? How can I help?*
Two days later, the headmaster stopped her in the corridor.
“Eleanor, my office.”
First names—never a good sign.
“Daniel’s mother died. Buried already. The psychologist said he couldn’t see her—closed casket. But there’s good news. His grandmother—father’s side—came. She’s taking him to live with her in Birmingham. We’ve given her his records.”
“So it’s settled. Better than we thought. God willing, he’ll be alright.” He paused. “You’re young, lovely—the students adore you. You understand what I’m saying?”
“No, I don’t,” she snapped. *Rumours.* Anyone could see how Daniel looked at her.
“Pupils fancy teachers—especially with small age gaps. Daniel lacked love—he clung to you for warmth.”
“Don’t worry, Mr Edwards. I understand.” Her tone was icy.
“Good. Off you go.”
She left, cheeks burning. Daniel was a bright boy dealt a bad hand. Wasn’t it good he still *could* feel love? Without it, a child’s heart hardens fast. He’d forget in time. She certainly would.
Next day, she told the class Daniel was moving to Birmingham with his grandmother. He’d promised to write. She’d keep them updated.
The first letter arrived three weeks later—short, uneven handwriting.
*Everything’s fine. School’s close. Birmingham’s alright. Gran’s strict but doesn’t hit. Miss everyone… I’ll be back.*
She replied at once—news about class, book recommendations. Her tone was careful, restrained. Better this way.
A year later, she met a man. Married him in six months. She moved in, asking her mother to forward any letters from Daniel. But none came.
Marriage soured fast. He nagged her to quit teaching—*Why waste your skills on ungrateful brats?* She didn’t understand his disdain. They argued constantly.
One day, feeling ill, she left work early. Passing a café, her phone rang. Her mother. Mid-conversation, she glanced through the window—her husband sat with a beautiful woman. Their hands touched, their eyes locked.
“Mum, I can’t talk.”
That evening, he shouted, “*You* chose kids over me!”
“Get out.”
“*My* flat, darling. *You* leave.”
She packed, moved back with her mother. At dinner, nausea hit.
“You’re pregnant,” her mother said. “Call him.”
She refused. Next morning, a test confirmed it. Her mother stormed to his place—returned furious.
“He denies it’s his! Says you’ve been with others! Well, he’ll pay.”
**Six years later.**
Spring arrived early. Sunlight melted the snow, leaving puddles. Eleanor walked home, enjoying the warmth. Ahead—another puddle. She stepped carefully, but a pair of polished shoes blocked her path.
A tall young man smiled.
“Hello, Miss Wilson.”
“Do I know you? Which parent are you?”
“None yet. Don’t recognise me? Ten years. Daniel Hartley.”
“Daniel?!” She stared. “Goodness—you’re all grown up!”
He helped her past the puddle. Conversation was tricky—paths too narrow.
“Fancy a coffee?”
They stopped at *that* café. She hesitated.
“Come on. No one will bother us.”
Inside, he talked eagerly—university, an engineering job in Birmingham. His gran had passed.
“Father?”
“Still in our old place with some woman. Don’t care to see him. But I kept up with you—Michael Dawson sent me photos from class. I *hated* when you married.”
“So *you* caused our divorce?” she teased.
“Maybe,” he smirked. “I’m back now. Flat, car, job.”
“You’re twenty-three. I’m ten years older. Plenty of girls your age.”
“You never replied to my letters.”
She frowned—she’d asked her mother to forward them. *That’s why he doubted paternity.*
He misAfter a moment of hesitation, she reached for his hand and whispered, “Perhaps some rules were meant to be broken.”
