June 14, 2025 Diary
Every graduating class, no matter how many years have slipped by, has its backbone the handful of people who keep the phone lines alive, arrange the gettogether, and make sure the circle never breaks. When the 20th anniversary of our Year 9 rolled around, the same familiar faces took charge of the venue, the menu and the programme. It was all done by habit, easy and cheerful.
When the guest list came up, the conversation sharpened. Of course we have to call the teachers, but will every former pupil turn up?
Everyone will, said Simon confidently. Only Steve Gordon hasnt been asked yet. Hes become a bit of a drunkard.
How can Steve be left out? shouted Ethel, the bespectacled girl with the thick frames. Hell be there Ive spoken to him.
Ethel, whispered Vicky, the former class monitor, he might get sloshed and cause a scene. I saw him stumbling the other night, barely recognised me.
Ethel sighed. Never mind. I know hes getting his act together.
Maybe, she added, for him this reunion means more than it does for the lot of us combined.
—
At school Steve was a different sort of fellow. Softspoken, gentle and never one to raise his voice. He listened, helped and was always there when someone needed a hand. His notebooks were immaculate, his handwriting even, his dictation sheets spotless. Physics and maths came to him as easily as breathing; equations seemed to whisper their solutions straight into his head. He seldom left an olympiad without a diploma perhaps not first place, but always a respectable result. At assemblies he was stationed next to the topscorers, and when a teacher placed a hand over his heart to praise him, he felt a flush of embarrassment rather than pride.
He dreamed of the Royal Military Academy after Year9. I still remember the day our form teacher took us on a visit to the open day; Steve returned buzzing with excitement, talking about uniforms, drill, discipline and how the academy would make him useful. The whole class believed hed make it.
Home, however, was a different story. His father had died long ago and his mother spent her days drinking.
On the last school bell, she turned up after a serious binge, swaying at the back of the hall, eyes glazed, hair a tangled mess. When Steve was handed his diploma, she shouted, Well done, Steve! My boy!
He stood there, face flushed, fists clenched, as if he could melt into the floor. A mothers praise felt like a sudden explosion in his life exactly what he didnt need.
His plans for the academy fell apart. He feared his younger sister would be taken into care if he left, so he stayed on, worked odd jobs in the evenings, began missing lessons, fell in with a rough crowd, and his path went off the rails.
—
When the reunion neared, Steve prepared in his own way. He borrowed a grey suit two sizes too big but clean, spent ages ironing a shirt and checking every button. He shaved carefully, tidied his hair as best he could, and abstained from drinking for two days, determined to appear as his true self that night.
Arriving at the restaurant in the town centre, he lingered at the entrance, hesitant to step inside. He watched from the fringe as old classmates greeted each other with hugs, showed pictures on their phones, cracked jokes and laughed loudly, as if the years had vanished.
A knot of anxiety tightened around him; he feared a single misstep would shatter the fragile picture of the evening. After an hour of watching, he finally pushed through the doors.
—
He stood on the threshold hair clean but uncut, suit illfitting, shoulders slightly slumped, eyes shy.
Ethel called out, Steve, over here! This is your spot!
He made his way to the table. The room sprang to life: toasts, laughter, music. Steve hardly ate or drank, simply sat, listened, observed, offering the faintest smile now and then.
As the night wound down, he rose. His voice trembled, each word a weight that had been held for years:
Thank you thank you for inviting me. This is probably the best thing thats happened to me in the last fifteen years.
His eyes glistened, his throat tightened, shoulders tensed, hands shook. He was vulnerable, open, like a child believing for the first time that he would be accepted as he was.
I Im really grateful Forgive me if I ever well, if I ever caused anyone trouble
In unison the crowd replied, Of course, Steve! Were glad youre here! It wouldnt have been the same without you!
Their smiles and pats on the back felt more like polite routine than genuine compassion a veneer of civility that hid no deeper concern. Ethel watched, thinking, You didnt really want to invite him
But the most important thing was that Steve didnt see the hollowness. He believed their words because he had no reason to doubt them. He bowed, a little embarrassed, and left among the first to exit, slipping out quietly without farewells or glances back.
Later, laughter and clinking glasses continued as old stories resurfaced who works where, whos married, whos still single.
—
Late that night, as I walked back to my flat, I spotted Steve on a bench outside the block, halflit by a flickering streetlamp. He was hunched over, already drunk, eyes glazed, hands resting on his knees. He didnt recognise me.
I knelt beside him, heart heavy:
Why did you drink, Steve? Tonight you held your own, you were yourself why now?
He stared at the dark courtyard, the empty windows, the lone lamp, and I thought,
How many lives crumble in silence because no steady hand, no supportive shoulder, no kind word was there? If someone had been there for him, would he be sitting here, in that illfitting suit, drunk and forlorn?
The question hung in the still night, unanswered.
Personal lesson: Ive learned that a reunion is only as sincere as the empathy that backs it. Inviting someone is easy; truly seeing their struggle and offering more than a polite smile is what makes a community worth keeping.
