Emily rose early, the dim grey light still trembling in the bedroom. In the kitchen she turned on the kettle and looked out at the courtyard: the first leaves on the maple by the entrance were already tinged yellow, a pale mist hung over the pavement.
Six months earlier, over evening tea, she and her husband James had decided to become a fostering family. Of the many profiles they saw, a lanky teenager with wary blue eyes caught their attention. Little children get placed faster, and at fifteen his chances are slim, James had said. Medical checks, interviews and a course for foster parents took months, and every agency repeated the same warning: Dont expect miracles, help will come, but there will be plenty of challenges.
James was fortyeight, working shiftbased as an engineer at the local railway depot. Emily was a teaching assistant at a nearby college. By six oclock in the evening she was usually free. Their life was orderly: work, Sunday walks, discounted cinema tickets. That steady rhythm suddenly felt fragile. Now or never, James murmured, signing the last form.
At the end of August the couple visited the childrens home. The interview room smelled of disinfectant and cold porridge. The boy sat on the windowsill, swinging his leg in a wornout sneaker, answering with monotone oneliners. When she joked about cassette players, he merely shrugged. On the drive back James squeezed Emilys handwords failed him.
The home prepared a separate room for Oliver: walls painted a soft steelblue, a desk, a new bed and a small speaker a for music gift. On the desk lay a fresh notebook and a pen.
The council van pulled up to their flat just after noon. The driver handed over two bags and a battered backpack. Oliver slipped into the hallway without a word, set the bags against the wall and clutched the backpack to his chest. Its yours now, Emily said quietly. He nodded, speechless.
At dinnersoup and chicken cutletsOliver ate quickly, avoiding eye contact. James talked about the school hed already arranged a transfer to, Emily mentioned the regional allowance: These are your funds, well spend them together. Olivers only reply was a flat, Can we skip the firstday ruler? We need it, Emily answered softly.
Early September rain brought a damp chill. A week later friction appeared. Oliver began coming home late: Out with the lads. Once he forgot his key, and Emily had to wait at the door, missing the staff meeting. James suggested building a computer for the school club, but the teen was glued to his phone screen.
The night before the weekend a box of sweets vanished. Emily asked gently what had happened. Buy a new one, Oliver snapped, storming into his room and slamming the door. James reminded him of mutual respect, but his words fell on empty air.
At school things worsened. The class tutor called Emily almost daily: tardiness, arguments in lessons. Oliver hid his diary under the mattress, replying that he wasnt obliged to follow foolish rules. The official paperwork on fostering offered little comfort when a tired teenager sat behind headphones.
By midSeptember the flat grew cold. The radiators werent due to be turned on until after the 15th. James set the kettle, Emily wrapped herself in an old jumper, Oliver sat behind a closed door beneath a desk lamp. Each felt the chill in their own way.
On Saturday at dawn a dull thump woke Emily. Olivers room was a mess: the backpack lay open, clothes scattered. Barefoot, he rummaged in a side pocket. Looking for my charger, he said without meeting her gaze. An hour later Emily discovered two pounds missing from the wallet on the shelf.
They called Oliver in for a talk. Seen the money? James asked. No, Oliver replied. Emily tried to soften the tone: If you took it, tell us and well sort it out together. He crossed his arms, silent. Jamess voice hardened: In our house you dont take what isnt yours. This isnt my house! You pretend to be kind and then youll hand me over! Oliver exploded.
He bolted for the door, spilling onto the landing. James caught him, gripping his sleeve. A cold draft seeped in through the ajar window. Give the money back and well talk, James said. I didnt take it. Oliver jerked, and a few notes slipped from his pocket. James stepped back, realizing his harshness, while Emily, standing in the doorway, felt a sharp draft and the fear of something lost forever.
Oliver lifted the cash and handed it to Emily, his lips trembling. You still wont believe me, he whispered. In that instant Emily decided the conversation could not wait. She gestured for both men to come inside.
The draft ceased as the door shut. Still clutching the notes, Emily walked to the kitchen and placed them on the edge of the table. Have a seat, she invited. James and Oliver lowered themselves onto stools; the tension lingered, but now it was shared by three.
Emily poured hot tea. Warm steam rose from the cups, marking the boundary of a new scene. Were here because we chose you deliberately, she began, keeping her voice steady. We all make mistakes, but running away isnt the answer.
James nodded quietly. I was scared youd think we didnt care. In truth, Im terrified of losing you before we even began.
Oliver stared at the floor, fidgeted with his backpack strap and exhaled, I wanted to show the lads I had money, thought thatd earn their respect. Now I see Ive messed up.
Emily heard not arrogance but confusion. She handed the notes back. Lets treat them as your pocket money. Well discuss each expense together. Agree? For the first time Oliver met her eyes and nodded.
They talked at lengthabout school, about rules being safety nets, not traps; about the fostercarer psychologist they could all see together. James suggested a simple start: a shared weekly schedule and one evening without phones. Oliver 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, leaves lazily twirled in the courtyard. Emily stepped onto the balcony and felt the gentle heat from the radiatorswarming earlier than promised. She smiled and returned to the kitchen, where James was noting expenses and Oliver was ticking off a line in his notebook: Weekend trip to the cottage.
On Sunday the three of them drove out of town. The cool air carried the scent of pine, and the hum of traffic rolled along the motorway. James showed Oliver how to mend an old fence, Emily laid out sandwiches on the table. Nothing heroic occurred, but as they headed back, Emily noticed Olivers backpack on the back seat, zip neatly closed.
Late that night, back at home, Oliver placed his keys on the communal shelf and said quietly, Tomorrow Ill come straight from school. Need to stick to the schedule. Those simple words sounded louder than any promise. Emily felt a space inside her open, making room for a future where mistakes could be fixed together.
Outside, a streetlamp caught the last yellow leaves against the darkness. September was drawing to a close. There were still many talks, reports, and counselling sessions ahead, but the first step had been takentogether. And that step taught them that honesty, patience, and shared responsibility turn a fragile house into a true home.
