The memory of that day still lingers, as sharp as the morning dew on an autumn lawn.
“Go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”
“Where are you?”
“At Mum’s cottage. She asked me to drive her.”
At the cottage. On the very day his son first walked through the school gates…
Eleanor stood by the kitchen sink, gripping the sponge so tightly her knuckles whitened. Her fingers trembled—not from the cold water but from the fury simmering beneath her skin. On the stove, porridge bubbled, threatening to scorch. The television murmured in the bedroom, and her mind raced with questions: *The cottage? Now? Why?*
Her husband had left early. Without a word. Just the slam of the door, and the house fell silent again. She told herself he might’ve stepped out to the car or run an errand. Their son, Oliver, had already woken, rubbing his eyes before padding to the bathroom in his pyjamas.
Everything seemed normal. Except for one thing: Dad never came back.
“Arthur, have you lost your mind?” she demanded when she finally reached him by phone.
“Mum needed me urgently,” he defended. “You go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”
“Right. Urgently. Today of all days. At eight in the morning. The first of September.” Her voice turned colder than the North Sea in December.
“Look, I get it—but she asked. We’ll be quick.”
Eleanor said nothing. If she spoke, the dam would break, and a morning meltdown wasn’t what a brand-new schoolboy should witness. Instead, she ended the call.
Let it weigh on their consciences.
“Mum, where’s Dad?” Oliver stood in his crisp white shirt, fumbling with his buttons. Determined but nervous.
“Grandma needed to go to the cottage. Dad drove her,” she said plainly, without sarcasm.
“Will he come after?” Oliver asked, hope flickering.
“I don’t know, love. I doubt it.”
“Did he know today was my special day?”
They’d talked about it all week. But Oliver couldn’t fathom why his father would choose this of all days to vanish.
“He knew,” Eleanor murmured.
The boy looked down, silent. He sat at the table, burying himself in his phone. A bouquet for school sat in a vase by the door, next to his new backpack adorned with race cars. Everything was ready for the celebration.
Except the family.
At the assembly, Oliver held himself together. No smiles, no tears—just his small hand clutching Eleanor’s tighter as children, grandparents, and fathers with cameras buzzed around them. For everyone else, it was a celebration.
Eleanor took photos, forcing cheer. A lump lodged in her throat, but she smiled for both of them. Maybe even for three. But it wasn’t enough.
When an older student carried a ribbon-clad girl to ring the school bell, her mother-in-law’s first message arrived: *”Take lots of photos. Send them to me. I want to see.”* The second came minutes later: *”Tell Oliver to wave. I’m there in spirit!”*
*”In spirit?”* Eleanor clenched her jaw. How convenient—no effort required.
She didn’t reply. Not out of fear, but because there was nothing left to say.
After the assembly, they went to a café for ice cream and milkshakes, then strolled through the park. The plan had been different: Arthur was supposed to take them to the funfair. Instead, he was at the cottage. With potatoes, not his son. Plans had shifted.
“Mum, can I ignore Grandma if she calls?” Oliver asked as his phone buzzed in his bag.
“Of course,” Eleanor nodded. “I would too.”
No explanations were needed. He hugged her tight, as if pressing all his hurt into her arms.
Something hardened inside her. So when Arthur called later, neither answered.
Their exchange was brief.
*”You’re acting like a child. Pick up. Mum’s upset,”* Arthur texted.
*”So is your son,”* she replied.
*”Oliver’s upset?”*
*”Yes. Because today mattered. And you picked parsnips over him.”*
Arthur returned near nine, creeping in as if silence could undo the tension. Oliver was already asleep. Eleanor sat in the parlour with a book she wasn’t reading—just holding it like a shield against indifference and her own churning thoughts.
“Maybe tomorrow we could do something? The three of us,” Arthur ventured, sitting beside her. “Cinema or a café. Feels like we’re always out of step.”
Eleanor raised a brow, studying him. No eagerness, no agreement. Just weariness.
“You think relationships work like deadlines? Just reschedule? Oliver needed you *today.*”
“I didn’t plan this,” Arthur rubbed his temples. “Mum asked last minute. I thought we’d be quick.”
“And your ‘thoughts’ don’t make it easier for him. He waited. Until everyone else left.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” he muttered. “What’s your problem?”
She laughed dryly. To him, the world hadn’t ended. No one was hurt. She was just making a fuss.
He didn’t see the betrayal. Or chose not to.
“My problem? You don’t grasp how much you’ve hurt him. You think time will fix it.”
Once, things were different. She remembered Arthur’s promise when she was pregnant: *”I want to be part of his life, not just present. A proper father.”*
He’d taught Oliver to ride a bike, fold paper aeroplanes, turn acorns into toy soldiers. They’d raced cars, the boy’s eyes alight, Arthur gazing at him like he held the meaning of life.
Even Grandmother had baked then—for herself, not Oliver, but it was something. She’d gushed over him, though her praise always carried a whiff of vanity. *”Such a handsome grandson! Takes after me!”*
Family gatherings were lavish—homemade cakes, intricate salads. But once guests left, the façade crumbled. Exhaustion set in, along with muttered complaints: *”You could’ve come earlier to help.”*
Oliver noticed. Young but not naive. He remembered Grandma’s broken promises to fetch him from nursery. Remembered Dad missing his recital to *”help Grandma.”*
He stopped asking.
Now, it was Eleanor who read to him, who knew about his crush on Lily or his scrapes with William. When his bike tyre burst, he brought it to her—not his father. She couldn’t fix it, but she fixed everything else.
Except one thing: Oliver no longer turned to his father.
“You expect him to forgive and love you—and your mother—just like that?” Eleanor locked eyes with Arthur. “He’s seven, not blind. And I won’t force him to smile while you break his heart.”
Arthur stiffened, irritation flashing beneath his weariness. He said nothing, just scrolled his phone—busywork to avoid the truth.
Eleanor returned to her book. A shield, granting respite.
A week later, another morning dawned with a buzz. A text from her mother-in-law: *”Hello. It’s my birthday today. Could you bring Oliver? I’d love to see him.”*
Eleanor stared. The words dripped with faux warmth—less a request, more an obligation. She debated whether to mention it, but duty won.
Oliver sat at his desk, meticulously colouring trees in a book, shoulders tense. He knew.
“Olly, Grandma’s birthday’s today,” she said softly. “She’d like you to visit.”
He didn’t look up. Finished a branch first.
“Mum… Can I not go?”
Predictable, yet she searched for manipulation. Found none.
“It hurts,” he whispered. “She never apologised. And… she forgets me.”
His gaze met hers—steady, wounded, resolved. She nodded.
“Alright. I won’t force you.”
“Will *you* go?” he asked.
“No. It hurts me too. We’ll stay home.”
She remembered past birthdays—Arthur picking gifts, Oliver crafting cards while she baked Victoria sponge. Grandmother’s dismissive *”Oh, you shouldn’t have!”*—though her smile said otherwise.
Yet the gifts were critiqued, the cake ignored. Once, Oliver found his card in the bin.
For years, Eleanor had clung to shards of family, begging them to stay. Inviting, explaining, hoping. Until a vegetable patch mattered more.
That evening, as Oliver brushed his teeth, Arthur’s text flashed: *”Mum’s upset. Says she won’t ask again. You ruined her day.”*
Eleanor almost ignored it. Then she dialled her mother-in-law.
“Hello?”
“It’s Eleanor. Arthur says you’re hurt. But *you* hurt Oliver. He won’t visit—not from spite, but your indifference.”
“Don’t be silly,” the woman scoffed. “He’s a child. What does he know?”
“He knows who choseAnd as the firelight flickered against the walls that night, Oliver curled closer to his mother, safe in the quiet certainty that some hearts, though broken, still beat fiercely enough for two.
