“Go on ahead, I’ll catch up later.”
“Where are you?”
“At the cottage. Mum asked me to drop her off.”
At the cottage. On the day your son starts school for the very first time…
Emily stood by the kitchen sink, gripping a sponge in her hand. Her fingers trembled—not from the cold water, but from anger. On the stove, porridge bubbled, already beginning to scorch. In the bedroom, the telly droned on, while questions flickered through her mind like a rolling news ticker: “The cottage? Now? Why?”
Her husband had left early. The English way—just a slam of the door, and the house fell silent again. She thought maybe he’d gone out to the car or had some errands. Their son was already up, rubbing his eyes, shuffling to the bathroom in his pyjamas.
Everything seemed normal. Except for one thing: Dad never came back.
“Jonathan, have you completely lost the plot?!” she snapped when she finally got through to him.
“Mum needed a lift urgently,” he defended. “You go on ahead, and I’ll meet you there.”
“Oh, brilliant. Urgent. Today of all days. Eight in the morning. First of September,” Emily’s voice turned colder than the iceberg that sank the Titanic.
“Look, I get it… but she asked. We won’t be long.”
Emily said nothing. Because if she spoke another word, the dam of her self-control would crack. A meltdown first thing in the morning 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, fiddling with the buttons.
Fumbling, anxious, but not complaining.
“Grandma needed a lift to the cottage. Dad took her,” Emily said bluntly, no sugar-coating, no sarcasm.
“Will he come after?” her son asked hopefully.
“Don’t know, love. Probably not.”
“Did he know today was my special day?”
They’d talked about it all week. But her son clearly couldn’t wrap his head around his father’s choice.
“He knew,” Emily answered quietly.
The boy lowered his gaze, silent. He sat at the table and buried himself in his phone. A bouquet stood in the vase—the one he’d take to school. By the door, his new rucksack with racing cars. Everything was ready for the celebration.
Except the family.
At the assembly, her son held himself together. No smiles, no tears, just a tighter grip on his mum’s hand as kids, grandparents, and fathers with cameras buzzed around them. Everyone else was living their best life.
Emily took photos too, forcing cheer. A lump sat heavy in her throat, but she smiled for the both of them. Maybe even for three. But it wasn’t enough.
When an older pupil carried a little girl with ribbons and a bell on his shoulders, the first text arrived from her mother-in-law: “Take loads of pics. Send them over. Want to see.” Another followed fifteen minutes later: “Tell Oliver to wave at me! I’m there in spirit!”
“In spirit?” Emily clenched her jaw. “In spirit” was very convenient. No effort required.
She didn’t reply. Not because she feared a row. She simply had nothing left to say to that woman.
After the assembly, they went to a café, ordered ice cream and milkshakes, then strolled through the park. The plan had been different: Dad was supposed to take them to the funfair. But Dad was at the cottage. With potatoes, not his son. The route had to change.
“Mum, can I not answer if Grandma calls?” her son asked when his phone buzzed in his bag.
“Course,” Emily nodded. “I wouldn’t either.”
She didn’t explain. No need. Her son just hugged her tight, as if trying to press all his hurt into her.
Something hardened inside her. So when Jonathan rang later, she didn’t pick up. Neither did her son.
The exchange was brief over text.
“You’re acting like a child. Answer the phone. Mum’s upset,” Jonathan wrote.
“So’s your son,” she fired back.
“Oliver’s upset?”
“Yes. Because today mattered to him. And you chose potatoes. Keep digging.”
Jonathan showed up just before nine. Tiptoed in like he was afraid to wake someone—or, more likely, to tip the already tense atmosphere over the edge. Their son was asleep. Emily sat in the lounge with a book but wasn’t reading. Couldn’t focus. Just held it like a shield against indifference and her own tangled thoughts.
“Maybe tomorrow we go somewhere? All three of us,” Jonathan offered, sitting beside her. “Cinema or a café. Feels like we’re always drifting apart.”
Emily raised her eyebrows and stared at him. No joy, no eagerness to agree. Just a tired sigh.
“You think relationships work like deadlines? Just reschedule? Oliver needed you today.”
“I didn’t plan this,” Jonathan rubbed his nose, steadying himself. “Mum asked last minute—I couldn’t say no. Thought we’d be quick.”
“Yeah. And your ‘thought’ doesn’t help Oliver. He waited. Till everyone else had gone.”
“Don’t overreact,” Jonathan muttered. “What’s actually wrong?”
Emily laughed dryly. No humour, just irony. Jonathan clearly saw this differently. The world hadn’t ended, no one was hurt—Emily was just being difficult.
He didn’t grasp it as betrayal. Or chose not to.
“Plenty. But mostly that you don’t get how much you hurt him. That you think it’ll all blow over.”
Once, things were different. She remembered Jonathan saying during her pregnancy:
“I want to be part of his life, not just there. Want to be a good dad.”
He’d taught Oliver to ride a bike, fold paper planes, make acorn soldiers. They’d raced toy cars together, her son’s eyes shining while Jonathan looked at him like he was the meaning of life itself.
Even his mum had baked cakes back then. More for herself than Oliver, but still. She’d gushed over him—though it always carried a whiff of vanity. “Look how handsome my grandson is! Takes after me!”
Family gatherings were loud, lavish. Home-baked cakes, fancy salads molded into shapes. But once guests left, the façade crumbled. Just sighs, eye-rolls, and complaints: “You could’ve come earlier to help set up.”
Oliver felt it all. Small but not stupid. He remembered when Grandma promised to pick him up from nursery but forgot. When Dad said he’d come to the nativity play but didn’t—”had to help Grandma.”
He remembered. And stopped asking.
Just withdrew, hope fading. Now he asked Mum to read stories, not Dad. Only Mum knew he fancied Lily from the other class, or that he’d fought with Charlie and wasn’t speaking. He even dragged his punctured bike to her, though he knew she couldn’t fix it. But she fixed everything else.
Except one thing: Oliver didn’t ask his dad for help anymore.
“You want him to forgive and love you—and your mum—just like that?” Emily stared Jonathan down. “He’s only seven. But he understands. And I won’t make him smile when you’ve hurt him.”
Jonathan froze. Exhaustion swam in his eyes, irritation simmering beneath. He said nothing, just jabbed at his phone—texting someone or pretending to be busy.
Emily didn’t care. She returned to her book. Now it truly was a shield.
A week later, her phone buzzed at breakfast. A text from her mother-in-law: “Hi. It’s my birthday today. Bring Oliver over? Want to see him. Really do.”
Emily stared. The words dripped with sweetness… and expectation. As if it were an obligation, not a request. She debated whether to even mention it to Oliver but eventually went to him.
He sat at his desk, colouring carefully—trees in green, staying inside the lines. Calm, but his shoulders were tense. Maybe he already knew what day it was.
“Olly, it’s Grandma’s birthday,” she said softly. “She’s asking if you want to visit.”
He didn’t look up. Finished a branch first.
“Mum… Can I not go?”
Predictable. Emily studied him, checking for manipulation or just a sulk.
“It’s not nice,” he murmured. “She didn’t even say sorry. And… she forgot about me.”
Finally, he looked up. Certainty, hurt, pain. No wavering. Emily nodded.
“Alright. I won’t make you.”
“Are you going?” he asked.
“No. It’s not nice for me either. We’ll stay home together.”
She suddenly remembered years past—her and Jonathan picking gifts, Oliver crafting a card while she baked a Victoria sponge. His grandma would tut: “Oh, you shouldn’t have!” But her smile said otherwise.
Except the gifts wereBut as she held her son close that evening, she realised no apology or belated trip to the funfair would ever mend what had been broken—some cracks ran too deep.
