Emma rose before dawn, while the bedroom was still lit by a dim, grey glow. In the kitchen she turned the kettle on and glanced out at the courtyard: the maple by the entrance already showed its first yellow mottles, and a thin mist hung over the tarmac.
Six months earlier, over evening tea, she and Mark had decided to become a foster family. Of the several profiles theyd read, a lanky teenager with wary blue eyes caught their attention. The younger children get placed faster, and at fifteen his chances are slim, Mark had said then. Medical checks, interviews, and a course for foster parents stretched over months, each step repeating the same warning: Dont expect miracles, help will come, but youll face plenty of hurdles.
Mark was fortyeight. He worked shiftwise as an engineer at the Crewe railway depot. Emma was a curriculum coordinator at a nearby college. By sixpm she was usually free. Their lives ran on a steady rhythm: work, Sunday walks, discounted cinema tickets. It was that orderly routine that suddenly seemed fragile. Now or never, Mark muttered, signing the final assessment.
At the end of August the couple drove to the childrens home on the outskirts of Manchester. The reception room smelled of disinfectant and cold porridge. The boy perched on the windowsill, rocking his leg in a scuffed sneaker, answering in monosyllables. When Emma joked about old Walkmans, he merely shrugged. On the drive back, Mark squeezed Emmas handwords failed them.
A small bedroom was prepared for Jack: walls painted a muted bluegrey, a desk, a new bed and a tiny speakerfor the music. On the desk lay a fresh notebook and a pen.
The childrens homes van arrived at their doorstep just after noon. The driver unloaded two bags and a worn backpack. Jack entered the hallway without a word, set the bags against the wall and clutched the backpack to his chest. Its yours now, Emma whispered. He nodded, speechless.
At lunchsoup and chicken cutletsJack ate quickly, eyes fixed on the plate. Mark talked about the school his transfer was already arranged for; Emma mentioned the council allowance: These are your funds, well spend them together. Jacks only reply was a flat, Can we skip the firstdayofschool meeting? We have to, Emma answered softly.
Early September rain brought dampness. A week later friction began. Jack started coming home late, claiming hed been out with friends. Once he forgot his key and Emma had to wait at the door, missing a staff meeting. Mark suggested they build a computer for the school club, but Jack stared at his phone screen instead.
The night before the weekend, a box of sweets vanished. Emma asked gently what had happened. Buy a new one, Jack snapped, slamming his bedroom door. Mark reminded him sternly about mutual respect, but the words fell into an empty room.
At school things went downhill. The class teacher called Emma almost dailytardiness, arguments in lessons. Jack hid his diary under the mattress, retorting that Im not bound by stupid rules. The official fostercare paperwork offered little comfort when a tired teenager sat behind headphones behind their door.
By midSeptember the flat grew chilly. The radiators wouldnt fire up until after the fifteenth. Mark set the kettle, Emma wrapped herself in an old cardigan, Jack sat behind a closed door under a desk lamp. Each of them felt the cold in a different way.
On Saturday at dawn Emma was roused by a dull knock. In Jacks room an open backpack lay on the floor, clothes scattered. Barefoot, he fumbled in a side pocket. Looking for a charger, he muttered without meeting her eyes. An hour later Emma discovered two hundred pounds missing from the wallet on the shelf.
The couple called Jack in for a talk. Did you see the money? Mark asked. No. Emma tried to soften the tone: If you took it, tell us and well sort it out together. Jack stayed silent, his arms crossed over his chest. Then Marks voice hardened: In this house we dont take what isnt ours. This isnt my house! You play nice, then youll hand me over anyway! Jack exploded.
He bolted for the door and lunged onto the landing. Mark caught up, gripping his sleeve. A draft of cold air slipped in through the cracked window. Give me the money and well talk, Mark said. I didnt take it. Jack jerked, and a handful of notes slipped from his pocket. Mark stepped back, realizing his harshness, while Emma, standing in the doorway, felt a sharp gust and a sudden fear of loss.
Jack lifted the cash and handed it to Emma. His lips trembled. You still wont believe me, he whispered. In that instant Emma decided the conversation would happen right then. She gestured them both inside.
The draft died as the door shut. Still clutching the notes, Emma moved to the kitchen and placed them on the edge of the table. Sit down, she said. Mark and Jack lowered themselves onto the stools; tension hung heavy, but now it was shared among the three of them.
Emma poured steaming tea. Warm vapour rose above the cups, marking the boundary of a new scene. Were here because we chose you knowingly, she began, keeping her voice steady. We all make mistakes, but running away isnt the answer.
Mark nodded quietly. I was scared youd think we didnt care. The real fear was losing you before we even began.
Jack stared at the floor, twisted the strap of his backpack, then exhaled. I wanted to show the lads I had money. Thought theyd respect me. Now I see Ive messed up.
Emma heard not arrogance but bewilderment in his tone. She handed the cash back: Well treat this as your pocket money. Every expense well discuss together. Agreed? For the first time Jack met her gaze directly and gave a small nod.
They talked long into the nightabout school, about rules being a safety net, not a trap; about the fostercare psychologist they could all see together. Mark suggested starting small: draw up a weekly schedule and have one evening a week without phones. Jack didnt argue, only asked if he could sometimes invite his new friends over. The answer was brief: Yes, but well meet them first.
By evening the wind died down, and lone leaves drifted lazily across the courtyard. Emma stepped onto the balcony and felt the longawaited heat from the radiatorswarmer than promised. She smiled, returned to the kitchen where Mark was tallying expenses, and Jack was marking a notebook: Weekend trip to the cottage.
On Sunday the three of them escaped the city. The crisp air carried pine scent along the A6, the hum of traffic fading behind them. Mark showed Jack how to mend an old fence, Emma assembled sandwiches on a picnic cloth. Nothing heroic occurred, but as they drove back, Emma noticed Jacks backpack on the back seat, zip neatly fastened.
Late that night, back at the flat, Jack 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 sounded louder than any promise. Emma felt space open inside her, a room for a future where errors could be corrected together.
Outside, a streetlamp cut through the darkness, catching the stray yellow leaves. September was ending. They still faced countless meetings, school reports and visits to the psychologist, but the first step had been takentogether.
