Emma stood by the kitchen sink, gripping a sponge so tightly her fingers trembled—not from the cold water but from anger. On the stove, porridge bubbled and burned, the telly droned from the bedroom, and her mind raced with questions: *The cottage? Now? Why?*
Earlier, her husband had left without a word—the quintessentially English exit. A door slammed, and the house fell silent again. She assumed he’d stepped out to the car or run an errand. Their son, Oliver, had woken, rubbed his eyes, and shuffled to the bathroom in his pyjamas.
Everything seemed normal. Except one thing: his father never came back.
“James, have you completely lost the plot?” Emma finally snapped when she got through on the phone.
“Mum needed help urgently,” he defended. “You two go ahead; I’ll catch up.”
“Oh, brilliant. Urgently. At eight in the morning. On Oliver’s first day of school,” she said, her voice colder than the ice that sank the Titanic.
“Listen, I know it’s not ideal—but she asked. We’ll be quick.”
Emma stayed silent. If she spoke, the dam of her composure would crack. A morning meltdown wasn’t what a first-time Year One pupil should witness. Instead, she hung up.
Let them carry that guilt.
“Mum, where’s Dad?” Oliver stood there in his crisp white shirt, struggling with the buttons. Fidgeting, nervous—but not complaining.
“Grandma needed a lift to the cottage. Dad took her,” Emma said plainly, no sarcasm, no sugarcoating.
“Will he come after?”
“I don’t know, love. I doubt it.”
“Did he know today was my special day?”
They’d talked about it all week. Yet Oliver couldn’t reconcile his father’s absence.
“He knew,” Emma whispered.
The boy looked down, silent. He sat at the table, burying himself in his phone. A bouquet for his teacher sat in a vase. By the door, his new backpack covered in footballs. Everything was ready for the big day.
Except his family.
At assembly, Oliver held himself together. No smiles, no tears—just a tighter grip on his mother’s hand while other children buzzed about, surrounded by grandparents and fathers with cameras. For everyone else, it was a celebration.
Emma took photos, forced cheerful words. A lump lodged in her throat, but she smiled enough for two. Maybe even three. It wasn’t enough.
When the Year Six boy carried a little girl with ribbons to ring the bell, Emma’s phone buzzed. Her mother-in-law: *”Take loads of photos! Send them. I want to see.”*
Fifteen minutes later: *”Tell Oliver to wave! I’m there in spirit!”*
*In spirit?* Emma clenched her jaw. How convenient—to be present without effort.
She didn’t reply. Not out of fear. Just… nothing left to say.
After assembly, they went to a café for ice cream and milkshakes, then strolled the park. The plan had been Disneyland Paris. Instead, Dad was at the cottage. With the tomatoes, not his son. Plans changed.
“Mum, can I ignore Grandma if she calls?” Oliver asked as his backpack vibrated.
“Of course,” Emma nodded. “I would too.”
No explanations needed. He pulled her into a hug, clinging as if to transfer every ounce of hurt.
Something hardened inside her. So when James called later, neither picked up.
Their exchange was terse:
*”You’re being childish. Pick up. Mum’s upset.”*
*”So’s your son.”*
*”Oliver’s upset?”*
*”Yes. Because today mattered. And you chose runner beans.”*
James slunk in by nine. Tiptoeing, as if quiet steps might soften the tension. Oliver was asleep. Emma sat in the lounge with a book—unread, just a shield against indifference and her own churning thoughts.
“Maybe we’ll do something tomorrow? All three of us,” James offered, sitting beside her. “Cinema? Pizza?”
Emma arched a brow, studying him. No relief, no eagerness. Just a tired exhale.
“Think you can reschedule parenting like a work deadline? Oliver needed you *today*.”
“I didn’t plan this!” James pinched his nose. “Mum asked last minute—what was I meant to do?”
“Your ‘last minute’ left him waiting. Till everyone else left.”
“Don’t make it sound so dramatic. Nobody died.”
Emma snorted—dry, mirthless. To him, it was a blip. Life went on. To her, betrayal.
He didn’t get it. Or chose not to.
“Oliver’s hurt. And you’re acting like it’ll just… vanish.”
Once, it had been different. She remembered James promising during her pregnancy: *”I want to be part of his life, not just present. I’ll be a proper dad.”*
He’d taught Oliver to ride a bike, fold paper planes, turn conkers into knights. They’d raced toy cars, the boy’s eyes alight, James gazing at him like he was the sun.
Even Granny had baked pies—more for herself than Oliver, but it was something. She’d gushed, *”Such a handsome grandson! Takes after me!”*
Their gatherings were lavish, all homemade Victoria sponges and trifles in fancy bowls. Then the guests left, and the facade crumbled into sighs and eye-rolls: *”You could’ve helped sooner, Emma.”*
Oliver noticed. Small, not stupid. He remembered Granny forgetting to collect him from nursery. Remembered Dad missing his Christmas play to “help Granny with the roses.”
He stopped asking.
Now it was Mum who read bedtime stories, Mum who knew about Lily in his class or the scrap with Noah. When his bike tyre blew, he dragged it to her—knowing she couldn’t fix it, but trusting she’d solve it anyway.
She solved everything.
Except one thing: Oliver no longer turned to his father.
“You think he’ll love you—and your mother—just because you snap your fingers?” Emma said flatly. “He’s seven, not clueless. And I won’t force him to smile when you’ve let him down.”
James stiffened, irritation flashing beneath exhaustion. He said nothing, just jabbed at his phone—texting or pretending.
Emma didn’t care. The book became her shield again.
A week later, another morning buzz. Granny: *”Hello, love. It’s my birthday today. Bring Oliver? I want to see him.”*
Emma stared at the screen. Words soft, expectant—as if it weren’t a request but duty. She debated telling Oliver, then did.
He sat at his desk, colouring trees with meticulous care. Shoulders tense, like he already knew.
“Ollie, Granny’s birthday’s today. She’d like you to come.”
He didn’t look up. Finished a branch first.
“Mum… do I have to?”
She studied him—no mischief, just quiet resolve.
“It feels bad,” he murmured. “She never said sorry. And she… forgot me.”
His gaze lifted, steady and sure. Emma nodded.
“Alright. I won’t make you.”
“Will you go?”
“No. We’ll stay home. Just us.”
She remembered past birthdays—Oliver crafting cards, her baking a sponge. Granny’s *”Oh, you shouldn’t have!”* (though her smirk said otherwise).
Then the gifts were nitpicked, the sponge left uneaten, one card found in the bin.
She’d thought love meant gluing shattered pieces back together. Inviting, reminding, bending. Until… runner beans mattered more.
That evening, as Oliver brushed his teeth, James’s text came: *”Mum’s hurt. Says you ruined her day.”*
Emma almost ignored it. But why should she hide? She dialled Granny.
“Hello?”
“It’s Emma. You’re upset, but here’s the truth: you hurt Oliver. He doesn’t want to see you. Not from spite—because you chose not to choose him.”
“Don’t be daft. He’s a child—what does he know?”
“He knows who showed up. And who picked tomatoes. Forget him now, don’t be shocked when he forgets you later.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“That’s the problem. You didn’t *mean* to, but you did. And now? He’s done with empty words.”
She hung up, light as air. Then texted James: *”Told your mum the truth. Fix things with Oliver before it’s too late.”*
A nudge at her side—Oliver, back from brushing, flopping onto the sofa.
“Mum, you’re brilliant,” he said suddenly.
“Like Superman?”
“Like Batman. He’s fair. And he protects people.”
Emma huffed a laugh, pulling him close. They watched cartoons, the imperfect pieces still fittingAs the credits rolled, Oliver yawned and nestled closer, his quiet breath warming her side—proof that love, though not perfect, was still enough.
