Claire rose before dawn, the dim grey light still trembling in the bedroom. In the kitchen she turned on the kettle and glanced out at the back garden: the maple by the flats entrance already wore the first yellow patches of autumn, and a pale mist hung over the tarmac.
Six months earlier, over evening tea, she and her husband had decided to become a foster family. Of the many profiles theyd read, a lanky teenager with wary blue eyes had caught their attention. The younger kids get placed faster; at fifteen his chances are slim, Simon had said then. Medical checks, interviews, a course for foster parents months passed, and every office repeated the same warning: Dont expect miracles, help will come, but the road will be rough.
Simon was fortyeight, working shifts as an engineer at a rail depot. Claire taught at a nearby furthereducation college. By sixp.m. she was usually free. Their life ran on a steady rhythm: work, Sunday walks, cheap cinema tickets. It was that orderly existence that suddenly seemed fragile. Now or never, Simon whispered, signing the final report.
At the end of August the couple drove to the childrens home in Birmingham. The meeting room smelled of disinfectant and cold porridge. The boy perched on the windowsill, swinging a foot in a battered sneaker, replying in monosyllables. A joke about cassette players earned only a shrug. On the way back Simon squeezed Claires hand words failed them.
A separate room was prepared for Jack: the walls painted a slateblue, a desk, a new bed, and a tiny speaker for the music. On the desk lay a fresh notebook and a pen.
The childrens homes van pulled up near their flat just after noon. The driver handed over two bags and a worn backpack. Jack slipped into the hallway without comment, set the bags against the wall and clutched the pack to his chest. Its yours now, Claire said softly. He nodded, speechless.
At dinner soup and chicken cutlets Jack ate quickly, avoiding eye contact. Simon talked about the school where his transfer had already been arranged; Claire mentioned the regional allowance: These are your funds, well spend them together. Jacks only reply was a flat, Can we skip the firstday ruler? Claire answered gently, We have to.
Early September rain brought dampness. Within a week the friction began. Jack started coming home late: Out with the lads. Once he forgot his key, leaving Claire waiting at the door and missing the parentteacher meeting. Simon suggested they build a computer for the school club, but the teenager was glued to his phone screen.
The night before the weekend, a box of sweets vanished. Claire asked cautiously what had happened. Buy a new one, Jack snapped, slamming the door shut. Simon reminded him sharply about mutual respect, but his words fell into a void.
School life deteriorated. The class teacher called Claire almost daily: tardiness, arguments in class. Jack hid his diary under the mattress, insisting he wasnt obligated to follow stupid rules. The official fostercare paperwork offered little comfort when a tired teenager sat behind headphones behind the door.
By midSeptember the flat grew chilly. The radiators werent due to be turned on until the fifteenth. Simon boiled water, Claire wrapped herself in an old sweater, Jack sat behind a closed door under a desk lamp. Each of them felt the cold in a different way.
At dawn on Saturday, a dull knock woke Claire. In Jacks room an open backpack lay on the floor, clothes scattered. Barefoot, he rummaged in a side pocket. Looking for my charger, he muttered, not meeting her gaze. An hour later Claire discovered two thousand pounds missing from the wallet on the shelf.
The couple called Jack for a talk. Did you see the money? Simon asked. No, Jack replied. Claire tried to soften the tone: If you took it, tell us and well sort it out together. He stayed silent, arms crossed over his chest. Then Simon said firmly, In our house we dont take what isnt ours. Jack exploded, This isnt my home! You play nice, then youll hand me over anyway! He bolted for the door and raced to the stairwell. Simon caught him, gripping his sleeve. A cold draught blew through the cracked window. Give the money back and well talk, Simon urged. I didnt take it. Jack jerked, and bills slipped from his pocket. Simon released him, realizing his harshness, while Claire, standing in the doorway, felt a sharp chill of unrecoverable loss.
Jack lifted the cash and handed it to Claire, his lips trembling. You still wont believe me, he whispered. In that instant Claire decided the conversation had to happen then and there. She gestured for both of them to come inside.
The draft died down as the door shut. Still clutching the notes, Claire walked to the kitchen and placed them on the edge of the table. Sit down, she said. Simon and Jack dropped onto the stools; tension hung in the air, now shared by the three of them.
Claire poured hot tea. Warm steam rose above 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.
Simon nodded quietly. I was scared youd think we didnt care. The truth is Im terrified of losing you before we even began.
Jack averted his eyes, twisted the strap on his backpack and exhaled, I wanted to show the lads I had money. Thought theyd respect me then. Now I see Ive messed up.
Claire heard not arrogance but confusion in his voice. She handed the cash back, Lets use this as a starting point for your pocket money. Well discuss every expense together. Agree? For the first time Jack looked her straight in the eye and nodded.
They talked long into the night about school, about rules being a safety net, not a trap; about the fostercare psychologist they could all see together. Simon suggested a simple start: a shared timetable and 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 let us meet them first.
By evening the wind had died, and a few leaves drifted lazily across the courtyard. Claire stepped onto the balcony and felt the longawaited warmth from the radiators they had turned on earlier than promised. She smiled and returned to the kitchen, where Simon was noting expenses, and Jack was marking in his notebook, Weekend trip to the cottage.
On Sunday the three of them drove out of town. The crisp air smelled of pine, and the highway thrummed with traffic. Simon showed Jack how to mend an old fence, while Claire prepared sandwiches at the table. Nothing heroic happened, but as they headed back, Claire noticed Jacks backpack zipped neatly on the back seat.
Late that night, back home, Jack placed the keys on the shared hallway shelf and whispered, Ill come straight from school tomorrow. Need to stick to the schedule. Those simple words sounded louder than any promise. Claire felt space open inside her, room for a future where errors could be corrected together.
Outside, a streetlamp cut through the darkness, catching the stray yellow leaves. September was drawing to a close. They still faced countless talks, school reports, and psychologist visits, but the first step had been taken and they had taken it together.
