A Step Toward
Eleanor rose at the crack of dawn, while the bedroom was still bathed in a weak, grey glow. In the kitchen she switched the kettle on and peeked into the back garden: the first maple leaves by the front steps were already tinged yellow, and a thin mist hung over the cobbles.
Six months earlier, over a mug of tea, she and her husband had decided to become an adoptive family. Of the several profiles theyd read, one lanky teenager with wary blue eyes caught their eye. Little ones get placed faster, but hes fifteen almost no chance, Martin had said at the time. Medical checks, interviews, a course for foster parents months of paperwork, each agency repeating the same line: Dont expect miracles, help will come, but there will be challenges.
Martin was fortyeight, working in shifts as an engineer at the local railway depot. Eleanor taught at a nearby college as a learning coordinator. By sixpm she was usually free. Their life was orderly: work, Sunday walks, bargainbin cinema. It was that tidy routine that suddenly felt shaky. Now or never, Martin muttered, signing the last form.
At the end of August the couple drove to the childrens home. The interview room smelled of disinfectant and lukewarm porridge. The boy perched on the windowsill, his foot swinging in a scuffed sneaker, answering in monosyllables. A joke about cassette players earned him only a shrug. On the way back, Martin squeezed Eleanors hand words failed them.
A separate room was prepared for Elliot: walls painted a soft steelblue, a new desk, a fresh bed and a tiny speaker a for music gift. On the desk lay a clean notebook and a pen.
The childrens home van pulled up to their block around midday. The driver handed over two bags and a battered rucksack. Elliot slipped into the hallway without a word, set the bags against the wall and clutched his rucksack to his chest. Thats yours now, Eleanor said softly. He nodded, equally speechless.
Lunch soup and chicken patties saw Elliot eating quickly, eyes averted. Martin talked about the school Elliot would transfer to, Eleanor mentioned the regional allowance: These are your funds, well spend them together. Elliots reply was a flat, Can we skip the ruler on the first of September? to which Eleanor answered gently, We need it.
EarlySeptember rain brought a damp chill. Within a week friction appeared. Elliot started coming home late, claiming hed been out with the mates. Once he forgot his key, leaving Eleanor waiting at the door and missing the parentteacher meeting. Martin suggested building a computer for the school club, but the teenager was glued to his phone.
The night before the weekend, a box of chocolates vanished. Eleanor asked cautiously what happened. Buy a new one, Elliot snapped, retreating to his room and slamming the door. Martin reminded him, sternly, of mutual respect, but the words fell flat.
At school things went downhill. The class teacher called Eleanor almost daily about tardiness and classroom disputes. Elliot hid his diary under the mattress, declaring he wasnt obliged to obey stupid rules. The official fostercare paperwork offered little comfort when a tired teen sat behind headphones.
By midSeptember the flat grew chilly. The radiators werent due to be switched on until after the 15th. Martin boiled water, Eleanor bundled herself in an old cardigan, and Elliot sat behind a closed door under a desk lamp. Each of them felt the cold in their own way.
On a Saturday dawn, a dull knock roused Eleanor. In Elliots room lay an open rucksack, clothes strewn about. The barefoot teen was rummaging through a side pocket. Looking for a charger, he muttered without meeting her gaze. An hour later Eleanor discovered two pounds missing from the wallet on the shelf.
The couple called Elliot in for a chat. Seen the money? Martin asked. No. Eleanor tried to soften: If you took it, tell us, well sort it out together. He stayed silent, arms crossed. Then Martin snapped, In our house we dont take what isnt ours. Elliot exploded, This isnt my house! You pretend to be nice and then youll hand me over anyway!
He bolted for the door, barreling onto the stairwell. Martin caught him, gripping his sleeve. A draft sneaked in through the halfopen window. Give the money back and well talk, he said. I didnt take it. Elliot twitched, and a few crumpled notes slipped from his pocket. Martin stepped back, realizing his harshness, while Eleanor, standing in the doorway, felt a sharp chill of loss.
Elliot lifted the money and handed it over, lips trembling. You still wont believe me, he whispered. In that instant Eleanor decided the conversation had to happen now. She gestured both men inside.
The draught died as the door shut. Eleanor, still clutching the notes, went to the kitchen and set them on the tables edge. Have a seat, she said. Martin and Elliot lowered themselves onto stools, tension hanging in the air, but now it was shared by the three of them.
Eleanor poured hot tea. Warm steam rose above the mugs, as if drawing a line around the new scene. Were here because we chose you deliberately, she began, steady. We all make mistakes, but running away isnt the answer.
Martin gave a quiet nod. I was scared youd think we didnt care. The truth is, Im terrified of losing you before we even started.
Elliot looked away, twisted the strap of his rucksack, then exhaled: I wanted to show the lads I had cash, thought theyd respect me more. Now I see Ive messed up.
Eleanor heard not arrogance but bewilderment in his voice. She handed the notes back: Lets treat these as your pocket money. Well discuss every expense together. Deal? For the first time Elliot met her eyes directly and nodded.
They talked long into the evening about school, about rules being a safety net, not a trap; about the fostercare psychologist they could all visit. Martin suggested a simple start: create a joint schedule and have one phonefree evening each week. Elliot didnt argue, only asked if he could sometimes invite his new friends over. The answer was short: Yes, but let us meet them first.
By night the wind had died down, leaves lazily twirling in the back garden. Eleanor stepped onto the balcony and felt the pleasant heat from the radiators theyd turned on earlier than promised. She smiled, returned to the kitchen where Martin was jotting down expenses, and Elliot was marking his notebook: Weekend trip to the cottage.
On Sunday the three of them drove out of town. The crisp air carried the scent of pine, and the motorway hummed with traffic. Martin showed Elliot how to fix an old fence, while Eleanor assembled sandwiches on the kitchen table. Nothing heroic happened, but on the way back Eleanor spotted Elliots rucksack on the back seat, its zipper neatly zipped.
Late that night, back home, Elliot placed his keys on the shared hallway shelf and said quietly, Ill be home straight from school tomorrow. Need to stick to the schedule. Those simple words rang louder than any promise. Eleanor felt a small space within her open, making room for a future where mistakes could be fixed together.
Outside, a streetlamps glow scraped the darkness, catching the occasional yellow leaf. September was drawing to a close. There were still reports to write, school meetings to attend, and psychologist visits to schedule, but the first step had been taken and taken together.
