“There was no evidence to support either claim,” she went on. “However, during the course of the investigation, another student came forward.” She paused. “He stated that the allegations were fabricated. That the student—Oliver Roberts—had admitted as much to him.”
The name landed harder than anything else had, not because I didn’t expect it, but because hearing it made it real.
“This student initially hesitated to come forward,” she continued, her tone tightening. “But when a second member of staff was accused, he felt it necessary to speak.”
There was something like disapproval in her voice, but I knew instinctively that it was not directed at me, but at the situation.
I could understand that.
So if Olliehadn’taccused another staff member, would this unknown student have kept silent? What was the deal here?
This wasn’t helping.
“And what will happen to Ollie?” I asked.
“He has been withdrawn from the college,” she said. “Effective immediately.”
Expelled, in other words. I suppose withdrawn sounded more pleasant than what it actually was.
“And the other professor?”
“Also cleared.”
Silence settled, and this had the feel of something final.
“You are, of course, reinstated,” she said. “With immediate effect.”
Of course.
The phrase struck me as oddly placed, as if this had always been the inevitable outcome. As if the past weeks had been?—
What? An inconvenience? A necessary process?
I folded my hands loosely in front of me. “Thank you,” I said. The words felt insufficient, but I wasn’t sure what else there was to say.
The meeting ended shortly after, and it wasn’t until that point that I realised something.
There’d been no apology, just the quiet closing of a folder and a handshake.
It didn’t feel enough considering everything they’d put me through. In fact, it felt like a huge anticlimax.
I stepped outside into the corridor, lost in the noise of students moving between rooms. Nothing had changed. Life continued.
Except it had changed, for me.
Somewhere between the accusation and the conclusion of the investigation, something had shifted. I had my job back, my reputation, everything I’d thought I might lose, and yet it didn’t feel like a return.
It feels as though I’m starting all over again.
Because the new term had already begun, I was thrust back into it. No time to recalibrate, nothing but classes, timetables, students waiting for me to be exactly who I’d been before I left.
I hadn’t prepared anything in advance, of course. There hadn’t seemed much point at the time, not when I hadn’t even known if I’d be coming back. So I built everything on the fly. Lecture notes scribbled between emails, lesson plans adjusted ten minutes before walking into the room.
It should have felt chaotic. Instead, it felt… automatic, like muscle memory.
The first few weeks passed the way they always did.
Students filtered in and out of practice rooms, the sound of scales bleeding through the walls. Fragments of Chopin and Debussy collided in the corridors. Constant questions about interpretation, about structure, about whether they were getting it right.