She sighed, adding another red cross to the tattered sheet of paper. Surely by the law of averages, Toby should get at least half the words right but they rarely were.
There or their, ate or eight; Toby picked the wrong one every time. She patiently encouraged, silently prayed. A good report would offer him a better future than the poverty stricken, violent homelife he’d been born into.
He approached her after graduation, held out drooping flowers and a card.
Dear Miss,
Thank you for giving me a piece of peace when I needed it most.
Can you retell the story in your own words?
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