“Just go ahead, I’ll catch up later.”
“Where are you?”
“At Mum’s cottage. She asked me to drop something off.”
At the cottage. On the day your son starts school for the very first time…
Nina stood by the kitchen sink, gripping the sponge so tightly her fingers trembled. Not from the icy water—from the rage. Oatmeal bubbled and burned on the stove, the faint murmur of the telly floated from the bedroom, and her mind raced with questions: “The cottage? Now? Why?”
…Her husband had left early. Like a ghost. Just the slam of the door, and the house was left in silence again. She’d thought, maybe he’d stepped out to the car or had an errand. Their son had already woken up, rubbing his eyes, padding to the bathroom in his pyjamas.
Everything was normal. Except for one thing. Dad wasn’t back.
“Are you out of your mind, Jack?” she demanded when she finally got through.
“Mum needed help. It was urgent,” he defended. “Just go ahead, I’ll catch up.”
“Oh, brilliant. Urgent. Today. At eight in the morning. On his first day,” her voice colder than the iceberg that sank the Titanic.
“Come on, I get it… but she needed me. We won’t be long.”
Nina stayed silent. Because if she spoke, the dam of her composure would crack. And a meltdown was the last thing their son should see on his big day. Instead of words, she hung up.
Let that weigh on their conscience.
“Mum, where’s Dad?” Their boy stood there, tiny in his crisp white school shirt, fumbling with his buttons. Determined, nervous—but not complaining.
“Grandma needed to go to the cottage. Dad took her,” Nina said simply. No sarcasm. No sugarcoating.
“Will he come after?” Hope flickered in his voice.
“I don’t know, love. Probably not.”
“Did he know today was my special day?”
They’d talked about it all week. But their son couldn’t reconcile this with the father he knew.
“He knew,” Nina murmured.
The boy went quiet, staring at his shoes before slumping at the table, glued to his phone. A bouquet sat waiting in a vase—his gift for his teacher. By the door, his new backpack covered in rockets. Everything prepped for the celebration.
Except the family.
At the assembly, their son held himself together. No smiles. No tears. Just his tiny fingers crushing Nina’s as children, grandparents, proud dads with cameras swarmed around them. Everyone else was living the dream.
Nina took photos, mustered encouragement. Her throat burned, but she smiled for the both of them. Maybe even for three. It wasn’t enough.
When an older student carried a little girl with ribboned pigtails to ring the school bell, the first text arrived from her mother-in-law: “Take loads of pictures. Send them. I want to see.” Fifteen minutes later: “Tell Oliver to wave at me! I’m there in spirit!”
“In spirit?” Nina clenched her jaw. How convenient—no effort required.
She didn’t reply. Not out of fear. Just… nothing left to say.
After the assembly, they went to a café. Ice cream and milkshakes. A walk through the park. The plan had been different—Dad was supposed to take them to the funfair. But Dad was at the cottage. With turnips, not his son.
“Mum… can I not answer if Grandma calls?” Oliver asked as his backpack buzzed.
“Course,” Nina nodded. “I wouldn’t either.”
No explanations needed. He just hugged her tight, like he could press all the hurt into her arms.
Something solidified inside her. So when Jack rang later, she didn’t pick up. Neither did their son.
The exchange was brief.
“Stop acting like a child. Answer the phone. Mum’s upset,” Jack texted.
“So is your son,” she replied.
“Oliver’s upset?”
“Yes. Because today mattered. And you chose vegetables. Keep digging.”
Jack slunk in near nine. Tiptoeing, as if he might wake the tension thickening the air. Oliver was already asleep. Nina sat in the lounge with a book—unread, just a shield against indifference and her own churning thoughts.
“Maybe tomorrow we do something? All three of us,” Jack ventured, sinking beside her. “Cinema? Café? Feels like we’re always apart.”
Nina arched a brow, studying him. No relief. No eagerness. Just exhaustion.
“You think this is work? Reschedule a deadline? He needed you today.”
“Wasn’t deliberate,” Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mum sprung it on me. Thought it’d be quick.”
“Oh, brilliant. Your ‘quick’ fix doesn’t help Oliver. He waited. Till everyone else left.”
“Don’t make it dramatic—”
“*Dramatic?*” A dry, mirthless laugh escaped her.
He didn’t get it. To him—no catastrophe. No casualties. Just Nina being difficult.
But to her? Betrayal.
“Plenty’s ‘not right.’ Starting with you not grasping how much you hurt him. Thinking it’ll just… fade.”
Once, things were different. She remembered Jack saying, before Oliver was even born:
“I want to *be* in his life—not just there. A proper dad.”
He’d taught Oliver to ride a bike. Fold paper planes. Turn acorns into soldiers. They’d raced toy cars, their boy’s eyes bright while Jack watched him like he was the sun.
Even Gran had baked then. Mostly for show—never *for* Oliver—but it was something. She’d gushed about how handsome he was—”Takes after me!”—laced with vanity.
Family dinners were grand. Fancy cakes. Elaborate salads. Then the guests left, the façade crumbled, and the sighs began: “You could’ve come earlier. Helped.”
Oliver noticed. Small, not stupid. He remembered Gran forgetting nursery pickups. Dad missing his nativity play—”Had to help Gran.”
He stopped asking.
Now Mum heard about the girl he liked at school. The scrap with Liam. The flat tyre on his bike—brought to her, not Dad, because she fixed things.
Except one thing: Oliver didn’t ask his father for anything anymore.
“You want him to love you—*forgive* you—just like that?” Nina locked eyes with Jack. “He’s seven. Not blind. I won’t force him to smile while you stomp on his heart.”
Jack froze. Weariness swam in his gaze, irritation simmering beneath. He said nothing. Just jabbed at his phone—texting someone or pretending to.
Nina didn’t care. She lifted her book. A shield. A pause.
A week passed. Another morning. The buzz of a text:
“Hi. It’s my birthday today. Bring Oliver? I miss him. Really.”
Nina stared. Words soft. Expectant. Like an order wrapped in lace. Five minutes weighing whether to mention it. Then she did.
Oliver sat at his desk, colouring. Carefully staying inside the lines. Shoulders tense—maybe he already knew.
“Olly, it’s Gran’s birthday,” she said softly. “She wants to see you.”
He didn’t look up. Finished a branch first.
“Mum… do I have to go?”
Predictable question. She searched for manipulation—found none.
“It hurts,” he whispered. “She didn’t even say sorry. And… she forgets me.”
His gaze lifted. Sure. Steady. Hurt.
“Okay. I won’t make you.”
“Are *you* going?”
“No. Hurts me too. We stay home. Just us.”
She remembered past birthdays. Jack picking gifts. Oliver’s handmade cards. Her baking Victoria sponge—Gran’s dismissive “Oh, you shouldn’t have!” (But the smirk said otherwise.)
Gifts were critiqued. Cake left uneaten. Once, Oliver found his card in the bin.
She’d tried. Invited. Called. Begged. Then… turnips mattered more.
Later, teeth brushed, Oliver curled into her. Her phone lit—Jack: “Mum’s hurt. Says she won’t ask again. You ruined her day.”
Nina almost ignored it. Then dialled.
“Hello?”
“It’s Nina. G’evening. Jack says you’re upset. But *you* hurt Oliver. He doesn’t want to see you. Not from spite—from your indifference.”
“Don’t be silly,” Gran scoffed. “He’s little. What does he know?”
“He knows who chose veg over him. You forget him now—don’t be shocked when he forgets *you*.”
“It’s not *malicious*—”
“That’s the *problem*. Malice you forgive. You just… couldn’t be bothered. Now *he* can’t.”
She hung up. Lighter, like a choking fog had clearedOliver squeezed her hand tighter, and in that moment, Nina knew no amount of turnips or birthday cakes could ever mend what had been broken.
