“You go ahead, I’ll catch up.”
“Where are you?”
“At the cottage. Mum asked me to drive her.”
At the cottage. On the day your son starts school for the very first time…
Nina stood by the kitchen sink, gripping a sponge. Her fingers trembled—not from the cold water, but from anger. Oatmeal bubbled and burned on the stove, the telly droned in the bedroom, and questions raced through her mind: *The cottage? Now? Why?*
…Her husband had left early. Without a word. Just slammed the door, and the house fell silent again. She thought maybe he’d stepped out to the car or run an errand. Their son was already awake, rubbing his eyes, shuffling to the bathroom in his pyjamas.
Everything seemed normal. Except for one thing: Dad wasn’t back.
“Gary, have you lost your mind?” she asked when she finally got through.
“Mum needed help urgently,” he defended. “You go ahead, I’ll catch up.”
“Yeah. Urgent. Right now. At eight in the morning. On the first day of school,” Nina’s voice turned colder than the iceberg that sank the *Titanic*.
“Listen, I get it… but she asked. We’ll be quick.”
Nina stayed silent. Because if she spoke, the dam of her composure would crack. And a morning meltdown wasn’t what a brand-new Year One pupil should see. Instead of words, she just ended the call.
Let that be on *their* conscience.
“Mum, where’s Dad?” Her son stood there in his crisp white shirt, fumbling with the buttons. Struggling, nervous, but not complaining.
“Granny needed to go to the cottage urgently. Dad drove her,” Nina said plainly, no sarcasm, no sugarcoating.
“Will he come after?” her son asked hopefully.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Probably not.”
“Did he know today was my special day?”
They’d talked about it all week. But her son clearly couldn’t make sense of his father’s choice.
“He knew,” Nina said quietly.
The boy looked down, silent. He sat at the table and buried himself in his phone. A bouquet waited in a vase—his gift for his teacher. By the door, a new backpack covered in race cars. Everything was ready for the big day.
Except the family.
At the assembly, her son held it together. No smiles, no tears, just a tighter grip on her hand as other kids buzzed around, grandparents and dads snapping photos. For everyone else, it was a celebration.
Nina took pictures too, forced smiles. A lump sat in her throat, but she smiled enough for two. Maybe even three. But it wasn’t enough.
When an older pupil carried a little girl with ribbons to ring the bell, the first text arrived from her mother-in-law: *”Take lots of photos. 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 teeth. *”In spirit”* was convenient. No effort required.
She didn’t reply. Not because she feared a row. Just… there was nothing to say to this woman.
After the assembly, they went to a café. Ice cream and milkshakes, then a stroll through the park. The plan had been different: Dad was meant to take them to the funfair. But Dad was at the cottage. With the tomato plants, not his son. Plans had to change.
“Mum, can I not answer if Granny calls?” her son asked when his phone buzzed in his backpack.
“Of course,” Nina nodded. “I wouldn’t either.”
She didn’t explain. No need. Her son just hugged her—tight, like he was pouring all his hurt into that squeeze.
Something inside her hardened. So when Gary called later, neither of them picked up.
The exchange was brief.
*”You’re acting like a child. Answer the phone. Mum’s upset.”*
*”So’s your son.”*
*”Oliver’s upset?”*
*”Yes. Because today mattered to him. And you chose the vegetable patch. Keep digging.”*
Gary showed up just before nine. Tiptoed in, like he feared waking someone—or, more likely, making things worse. Their son was already asleep. Nina sat in the lounge with a book but wasn’t reading. Just holding it like a shield against indifference and her own raging thoughts.
“Maybe tomorrow we go out? All three of us,” Gary suggested, sitting beside her. “Cinema or something. Feels like we’re drifting apart.”
Nina arched a brow. No eager nods, no forced cheer. Just a weary sigh.
“You think relationships work like deadlines? Just reschedule? Oliver needed you *today*.”
“I didn’t plan this,” Gary pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mum asked last minute. I couldn’t say no. Thought we’d be quick.”
“Right. And your ‘thought’ doesn’t fix Oliver’s hurt. He waited. Till everyone else left.”
“Don’t make it—”
“What’s *your* problem?”
Nina laughed—dry, humourless. Gary clearly saw this differently. No one died, the world didn’t stop, and Nina was just being difficult.
He didn’t get it. Or didn’t *want* to. That this felt like betrayal.
“Plenty. Mainly that you don’t see how much you hurt him. That you think this’ll just… blow over.”
Once, things were different. She remembered Gary saying during her pregnancy:
*”I want to be *in* his life, not just *there*. I want to be a good dad.”*
He’d taught their son to ride a bike, fold paper planes, turn acorns into toy soldiers. They’d raced cars, his son’s eyes shining while Gary looked at him like he was the whole world.
Even Granny used to bake. More for herself than Oliver, but it was something. She’d fuss over him—*”What a handsome lad! Takes after me!”*—but it always felt… performative.
Family gatherings were loud, lavish. Fancy cakes, elaborate salads. But once guests left, the façade crumbled. Just sighing, eye-rolling, *”You could’ve helped sooner.”*
Oliver noticed. He was young, not stupid. He remembered Granny promising nursery pickups… and forgetting. Dad missing nativity plays because *”Granny needed help.”*
Remembered. And stopped asking.
Now he wanted *her* to read stories. Only *she* knew about his crush on Emily or his fallout with Jake. He’d dragged his punctured bike to *her*, though she couldn’t fix it. Because she fixed *everything*.
Except one thing. Their son no longer turned to his father.
“You want him to forgive and love you—and your mum—on demand?” Nina locked eyes with Gary. “He’s seven. Not blind. And I won’t make him smile when you *hurt* him.”
Gary froze. Weariness in his gaze, irritation simmering underneath. He said nothing, just jabbed at his phone. Typing—or pretending to.
Nina didn’t care. She went back to her book. A shield, a breather.
A week later, another morning. Her phone buzzed. Granny: *”Hi. It’s my birthday today. Bring Oliver? I want to see him. *Please*.”*
Nina stared. The words oozed faux sweetness… and expectation. Like an order, not a request. She debated whether to even mention it to her son, but finally went upstairs.
Oliver sat at his desk, colouring carefully. Shoulders tense. Maybe he already knew.
“Ollie… Granny’s birthday’s today. She’s asking if you want to go.”
He didn’t look up. Finished a tree branch first.
“Mum… Can I not?”
Predictable. Nina studied him—was this manipulation, or…?
“It feels bad,” he murmured. “She didn’t even say sorry. And… she forgets me.”
Finally, he met her gaze. Certainty, hurt, pain. No tantrum. Just resolve. Nina nodded.
“Okay. I won’t make you.”
“Are *you* going?”
“No. It’s… bad for me too. Just us today.”
She remembered past birthdays. Oliver crafting cards while she baked Victoria sponge. Granny’s *”Oh, you shouldn’t have!”*—yet always pleased.
Except… gifts got critiqued, cakes left uneaten, and once, Oliver found one of his cards in the bin.
Nina used to think relationships could be salvaged—glued back like broken pottery. Just endure, explain, keep inviting. She *had*. Nativity plays, birthdays, casual visits. Then… the vegetable patch won.
Later, after bedtime, Gary texted: *”Mum’s upset. Says she won’t ask again. You ruined her day.”*
Nina almost ignored it. But why should *sheShe tucked the phone away, pulled her son closer, and let the warmth of his small frame remind her that some things—like love—didn’t need fixing, just holding.
