Lesson Learned

Terry Herrington 

It was my second year at Oxford—twenty years old and the fourth in my family to attend this prestigious university on my father’s side—a fact that made my father immensely proud. The day I received my acceptance letter, he leapt from his chair and dashed to his office, eager to notify the partners at Harrington Smith and Gore, his very successful law firm. He wanted everyone to know I was well on my way to becoming a partner someday. It was the dream, the ultimate goal. I knew that one day, I would work alongside my father, the Harrington men thriving both at home and in the office. What could be better? My family always came first, and there was no other way to be. They celebrated every achievement of mine as if it were their own.

My father, William Harrington, was my hero. If I could be half as remarkable as I believed him to be, I would consider myself eternally fulfilled. Ever since I was six, I had planned to follow in his footsteps, captivated by my growing love for the law and inspired by the stoic figure my father represented.

Then there was Janice Harrington, my mother—a fiery rebel who asked countless questions and refused to be silenced, even in a room full of men. When provoked, she could be intimidating, though she seldom let things escalate to that point. She leaned more toward a mindset of “anything is possible.” A storyteller at heart, my mother had the incredible ability to enthrall us with tales that ranged from spine-chilling to triumphant. Every night, our family would gather to listen, and when it was time for bed, her words would linger, weaving themselves into our dreams.

Mother had hoped I would choose Cambridge, paving my own path and escaping the legacy she herself had been bound to by her parents. She was a dreamer, a writer, and a hopeless romantic—attributes that sometimes made me feel as though I had let her down by adhering to tradition. But my decision was firm. I was a boy with a dream—a dream of following in my father’s footsteps. Despite her wishes, she accepted my choice, wholeheartedly wishing me happiness above all else. I think she admired my resolve, and I like to believe I am still happy with the path I’ve chosen.

At Hertford College, I focused on mathematics, diligently working toward my bachelor’s degree. It was all part of the carefully plotted route I had envisioned for myself since primary school. My mother may have dreamed of me becoming a poet or a writer, but I was steadfast in pursuing my lifelong ambition.

Emmett and Archie Harrington, my younger brothers, are among the most cherished parts of my life. Although I once couldn’t have imagined loving those two “nobs” as much as I do now, their presence brought me immense joy. A year apart in age and the youngest five years my junior, they had me looking out for them, a role I happily embraced. I took pride in being the best big brother I could be.

I fondly remember us gathered around for Mum’s enchanting stories, transported to the worlds she created. As we grew older, she encouraged me to pass on the older tales and create new ones for my brothers. I became their storyteller, earning their admiration not just for academics but for my flair in spinning a captivating yarn. On countless nights, they would creep into my room, their small bodies curling into mine as they sought the comfort of shared space in the dark. Archie always claimed the middle spot, draping a leg over my hip—a position he favored often.

Looking back, I think my mother saw how these shared moments strengthened the bonds between us. For her, storytelling was more than just entertainment; it was the glue that held us together. She loved hearing me narrate the stories we grew up with and reveled in the ones we created anew. Deep down, I think she secretly wished I would become a writer someday, but I hope she understands that the stories I tell, in whatever form, will always carry her legacy.

Even with this new responsibility, my mind never wavered from my overall plan—I simply made room for my two young lads. Day in and day out, my routine revolved around achieving the best grades. Since second grade, I had made it my mission to excel in class. I aimed for the highest scores, the best-written essays, and the distinction of finishing tests first—the pride of the classroom, so to speak. But being the best student wasn’t just about excelling in assignments; it also involved winning over the teachers. I made it my life’s mission to be the best-behaved, most admired pupil—the ever-doting student who graced the classroom.

Of course, the whole endeavor was far from easy. As a young bloke, I had to learn how to read and adapt to each teacher’s preferences, ensuring that every year ended with me being lauded as the boy wonder—Terry Harrington, son of the great William and Janice Harrington. As I grew older and my courses became increasingly difficult, the simple pleasures of boyhood slowly slipped away, replaced by more pressing matters like history and chemistry. I embraced anything and everything that could give me an edge, bringing me one step closer to the future I dreamed of.

By high school, I was in the big leagues—where grades truly mattered when it came to getting into university. Following in my father’s footsteps meant maintaining a flawless GPA to seal the deal. Maxwell Smith, the son of my father’s friend and law partner, was a pivotal figure in my life. Their friendship began at Hertford College, Oxford, and it seemed destined that Maxwell and I should follow suit, becoming friends and attending the same school. Maxwell had been my mate for years—the closest thing to a twin I could imagine—and we shared the same aspiration: to follow in our fathers’ footsteps.

Looking back, I realize that having Maxwell as my first best mate was what made having two younger brothers even more wonderful. Maxwell was like another brother, only closer. We were nearly inseparable, although he was more athletic than I and had a wider circle of friends, which he always shared with me. When I was accepted into Hertford College, Oxford, Maxwell was the first person I told—even before my parents. Similarly, he confided in me when his acceptance letter arrived.

Together, we were two young lads with grand dreams, relieved to have each other to lean on. We kept each other focused and motivated, striving to rule the school and pursue the glittering future our fathers envisioned for us. Thinking back now, I see how naïve we were to think that love and heartache wouldn’t find their way into our lives. At the time, those emotions seemed irrelevant, something neither of us considered or sought.

The school year was about to begin, and I was nearly done packing. Most of my suitcases were already in the car, as my overthinking tendencies had led me to pack them the night before. All I had left were my toiletries and a bag. The problem was, I had inadvertently packed all my shirts in the other suitcase.

“Mum, I can’t find my shirt! Mum, I’m going to be late—do you know where it is?” I called out, trying to maintain composure while searching my room one last time. In the end, I grabbed a shirt from the bin—one I knew wasn’t too dirty and suitable for travel. I threw it on as quickly as I could. It was a white button-up that hadn’t been ironed, but it would have to do. Missing my train was not an option; that would jeopardize my entire meticulously planned schedule for the day.

“Terry, everyone is in the car—you’re going to be late!” Emmett yelled from downstairs. I took a sharp breath, doing my best to stay calm as I exited my room.

“I’m on my way down now, Emmett! Tell Mum I’m right behind you, mate!” I shouted back, my voice carrying through the house as I hurried down the stairs. Picking up speed, I bolted for the open door. At the front door, I paused, taking one last look at the house before shutting the door and running to the car.

This part was always the hardest for me. Even though I loved school—some might even say I thrived there—it was never easy to leave my family. Sure, I could come home anytime, but it wasn’t the same as being there for the little moments: watching Emmett and Archie head off to school, talking to them about their days, or sitting down for Sunday supper with everyone. It felt like shifting into a new gear, leaving behind the comfort of the one I was in.

I ran down the steps to the idling car, where my family waited.

“You ready to go, darling?” Mum asked sweetly from the passenger seat. I nodded, opening the back door and squeezing in with Emmett and Archie.

“Of course, the boy is always ready. He knows what to expect this year, isn’t that right?” Dad said from the driver’s seat. I caught his smile in the rearview mirror and returned it with a wide grin.

“Of course, Father. No need to worry, Mother—this year will be a breeze. Don’t worry, I’ve got this,” I replied confidently, giving Mum a reassuring wink.

“Yeah, Terry’s got this. You should know that by now, Mother,” Emmett chimed in, nudging me playfully with his elbow.

“Yeah, Terry eats, breathes, and sleeps for university. I’m surprised they haven’t renamed the place after him,” Archie added with a snicker.

Leaning over Emmett, who sat in the middle, I grabbed Archie’s head and tucked it under my arm, ruffling his hair in good fun. We all laughed as I released him.

In some ways, they were right. But their teasing didn’t stop the knot forming in my stomach as we got closer to the station. I was excited to get back to work, to challenge my mind again. Yet, leaving home was more bittersweet than I had anticipated. For the next ten minutes, though, I let myself enjoy the laughter and banter with my family. I knew I’d leave them at the station, but they’d always be with me in my heart—and, of course, just a phone call away.

“Promise you’ll come home early for Christmas this year,” Mum murmured as she hugged me tightly at the station. My whole family had gathered to see me off. “I need more time to hear about what you’ve been up to this semester,” she added, pulling back with tears in her eyes.

I wiped her cheeks gently, smiling down at her. “Mum, don’t cry. I promise I’ll come home a little earlier and fill you in. But you have to promise not to cry anymore.”

She gave me a small smile, stepping aside to let my brothers say their goodbyes. Each gave me a strong hug.

“Oi, try and meet some girls this year. It’s about time you found yourself a bird!” Emmett teased, dodging my playful grab for his head.

“Your brother will be far too busy to worry about that!” Dad interjected, nudging Emmett toward Mum.

“Not everyone’s as girl-crazy as you, Emmett!” Archie laughed, standing by my side. I smiled down at the two of them, a bittersweet ache in my chest.

“I’m going to miss you lads,” I said, my voice soft.

Both Emmett and Archie stopped laughing, their expressions turning serious.

“Oi, don’t go all soft on me now, older brother. But yeah, I know what you mean,” Emmett said earnestly.

“Me too. And you can go soft anytime you want—I don’t mind,” Archie added, pulling me in for another hug.

The train horn sounded, signaling it was time to go. I looked at my family one last time.

“Well, see you in a couple of months.”

“Cheers, mate,” my brothers said in unison.

“Goodbye, sweetheart. I love you,” Mum sniffled, wrapping her arms protectively around Emmett and Archie.

Dad’s hand landed firmly on my shoulder, grounding me. “Well, son, this is where you go and make me proud. I have nothing but the highest hopes for you this year. Go on—make me proud.”

I met his gaze, nodding before turning to board the train. As I settled into my seat, I thought about his words, feeling the weight of his expectations and my own hopes.

“Hertford, here I come,” I murmured to myself, glancing out the window for one last look at my family before the holidays