The prison governor asked an inmate to look after his son. She sang the boy a strangely familiar lullaby.
William Thompson heard his phone ring from his pocket for the third time. Finally dismissing his staff at the women’s correctional facility, he quickly answered.
“Hello?”
Silence first, then the irritated voice of his son’s nursery teacher.
“William Thompson, this isn’t the first time I’ve called you!”
He winced, knowing he was at fault.
“Sorry, Miss Eleanor, I was in a meeting. Is something wrong?”
“Of course something’s wrong, but nothing serious. Oliver’s come down with a fever. Just a cold, but he can’t stay here and infect the other children. You need to collect him immediately—he’s been in the nurse’s office for an hour.”
“Miss Eleanor, I’m at work too—I can’t just drop everything—”
“That’s not my problem, William. If you don’t care that your son’s sitting alone in the nurse’s office, that’s up to you.” Her tone was firm, almost sharp.
Parents forgave her bluntness because she was different with the children—warm, kind, like a second mother. The kids adored her, always chattering at home about what “Miss Eleanor” had said. Polite, clever, well-mannered—her pupils were her family.
William grabbed his coat and rushed out, calling to Rita:
“I’m off to get Oliver from nursery—he’s ill. No way I’m dragging him back here. I’ll sort it and let you know.”
He didn’t hear Rita’s reply. He sighed inwardly, realising he was always on the move—ever since Helen passed. It was like he couldn’t stop, as if slowing down would let the grief catch him.
Helen and Rita had been friends, joining the prison service together. Helen worked in supplies.
By the time William transferred here, Rita was already married with kids. A year later, he and Helen wed—he still couldn’t believe his luck. He’d had a good life—adopted at ten by kind parents, rare for his age. Thanks to his foster mother tutoring him, he’d finished school, graduated, and served his time before being posted here, where his life with Helen began.
When Oliver was born, William was over the moon. He joked about it to Helen, who laughed and called him daft while sending him off to hang baby clothes. Life felt perfect—until Helen got sick.
At first, she dismissed it as fatigue, but William noticed her wasting away. He insisted on tests, leaving three-year-old Oliver with Rita. Days later, the clinic called, asking him to come alone. He knew then the fairy tale was over. The doctor said it was too late—she had months left, not even half a year.
When he got home, Helen took one look at him and understood.
“You’ve seen the doctor, haven’t you?” she said quietly.
He nodded, throat tight.
“Good,” she whispered, smiling sadly. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“You *knew*?” he choked.
“No one *knows*,” she said gently. “But I could guess. Blood tests don’t lie.” She sighed. “Not long now.” William bowed his head and wept.
Two months later, she wasShe was gone just a week before Oliver’s fourth birthday.