IMOGEN'S POV
The school corridor smelled of floor polish and chalk dust. I clutched Joseph's hand as we walked past the display boards filled with neat handwriting and colorful paintings. His new leather satchel, still stiff and unmarked, bumped against his corduroy trousers with each step.
"Mrs. Harris will be your teacher," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Joseph nodded solemnly, his eyes wide beneath his neatly combed fringe. I'd spent nearly an hour this morning pressing his uniform, making sure the collar of his shirt sat perfectly against his grey jumper.
Outside Room 4 of St. Bartholomew's Preparatory Academy, other mothers were already saying their goodbyes. The school's crest gleamed in polished brass beside the door, a reminder of the centuries of tradition that now embraced my son. Some children clung tearfully to skirts and hands, while others seemed eager to escape. Joseph's grip on my fingers tightened.
