**”But what if Mum and Dad really do get divorced?”** The dreadful thought twisted Alfie’s stomach into knots, and he fought back tears.
The three friends trudged home from school, the spring sun glaring in their eyes. They jostled and teased one another, laughter bubbling up as they shoved playfully. At Oliver’s house, they paused.
“Coming out on your bike tonight? Me and Jack had a proper good ride through the park yesterday,” Oliver said.
Alfie frowned. He’d been begging his dad for weeks to fetch his bike from the garage, but there was never time—either he came home too late from work, when it was already dark, or he promised to do it at the weekend, only to forget or claim he was too busy.
“You coming or what?” Oliver nudged Alfie’s shoulder.
“Dunno. Bike’s still in the garage. If Dad gets home early—”
“Why don’t you just grab it yourself? Anyway, we’ll be at the park by seven. See you there.” Oliver held up his hand for a high-five, and the boys each slapped it before parting ways.
At the next house, Alfie waved off Jack. *Maybe I should just look for the garage key,* he thought. *Dad only parks the car in there in winter—he probably doesn’t even carry the key on him.* He hurried home, further than either of his friends lived.
Inside, Alfie changed out of his uniform and immediately rummaged through the kitchen drawer where spare keys and odds and ends were kept. No luck. He searched a while longer before giving up, resigning himself to homework instead. When Mum got back, he’d ask her. But if his schoolwork wasn’t done, she’d never hand over the key.
He finished his assignments in an hour and a half—a record. Usually, it took twice as long. The front door clicked open. “Mum!” Alfie raced to meet her.
“Hello, love,” she sighed, carrying shopping bags into the kitchen. Alfie trailed after her as she unpacked groceries.
“You didn’t eat your pasta and meatballs? Just had tea and toast again?” Mum pushed a packet of rice into the cupboard.
“Mum, where’s the garage key?”
“What d’you need it for?”
“Want to get my bike out.”
“Done your homework?” She shut the fridge and gave him a pointed look.
“Yeah, you can check,” he said eagerly.
“The key…” Mum glanced around, distracted. “Can’t remember. Wait for your dad—he’ll know where it is.”
“When’s *he* getting back? Midnight?” Alfie snapped. “The others have been riding for ages. Why’d you even put my bike in the garage? Could’ve left it on the balcony. And when Dad *does* come home, you’ll just start rowing again. I’m sick of it.” His mood plummeted. He spun on his heel and stomped to his room, slamming the door behind him.
Lately, Dad was always working late. He and Mum fought constantly, shouting over each other until Alfie had grown too familiar with the word *divorce*.
He couldn’t imagine them actually splitting up. Sure, Dad barely asked about his life anymore. They hadn’t gone anywhere together in ages. Once, Dad *had* come home early and asked about school over dinner. Alfie had started excitedly, only to stop short when he noticed Dad’s distant stare—he wasn’t listening. Then Mum had jumped in, accusing Dad of not caring, of failing as a father when Alfie needed guidance most… Alfie had retreated to his room, trying to block out the yelling.
Oliver’s dad took him fishing and to football matches. Jack’s parents were always whisking him away on weekends. Alfie sighed.
Perched on his bed with a book in hand, he hadn’t read a single word. Mum slipped in and sat beside him, reaching to tousle his hair. Alfie turned away, and she dropped her hand.
“I found the garage key. If you’ve really done your homework—”
“I *have*,” he muttered.
“All right, then. Get dressed—we’ll fetch your bike together.”
Alfie snapped the book shut, tossed it aside, yanked on a hoodie, and sprang up. “Ready!”
“Promise me you won’t ride on the road. Stick to the park or pavements,” Mum said as they left.
The garage was just past the bus stop, a five-minute walk. Alfie wrestled the rusted lock open, wrenching the metal door aside with a grating screech.
“Told your dad a hundred times to oil those hinges,” Mum grumbled, stepping inside. She flicked the switch, and a bare bulb flickered to life under the low ceiling. Clutter lined the shelves—old tools, boxes, a kitchen table crammed in the corner. The space reeked of motor oil and petrol, the day’s heat trapped inside.
Alfie spotted his bike hooked high on the wall.
“Can’t reach. Grab a stool,” Mum said.
He wobbled precariously on the rickety stool while Mum gripped his legs for balance.
“Mum, you’re *not* holding me. Just steady the stool, yeah?” His tone surprised him—patronising, like Dad’s. He heaved the bike upward but couldn’t lift it free.
“Let me—”
“I’ve got it!” Alfie shoved harder. The stool tilted.
“Mum, HOLD IT!” The bike nearly toppled, but she caught it just in time.
Alfie jumped down, dusting his hands off, already picturing the evening ride with his mates.
“Tyre’s flat. Needs pumping,” Mum said. “See if the pump’s here.”
He rummaged through the mess but found nothing.
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll borrow Jack’s.”
Mum’s phone rang. “It’s Dad,” she said flatly, answering.
“We’re at the garage… Alfie needed his bike. You’re home *early*? What’s the occasion?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm before falling silent, listening.
“Couldn’t wait, could you? You’ve been promising him for weeks… Oh, *now* it’s urgent? Don’t bother coming—just tell me where the pump is.” She hung up, glaring at Alfie. “He can’t remember. Shocking, that.” She perched on the wobbly stool. “We’ll wait. *Did* you do your homework?”
They were still talking when the garage door swung open. Dad stood in the frame. Alfie dashed over.
“I got the bike down myself!” he bragged. “Dad, the tyres need pumping—we couldn’t find—”
He trailed off, glancing at Mum. She wouldn’t look at Dad. Neither would Dad meet her eyes. They were strangers again. Alfie’s excitement evaporated, replaced by a hollow chill despite the garage’s warmth.
Dad searched for the pump while Alfie watched. *What if they* do *split up?* The thought wrenched his gut, threatening tears.
He remembered a film where kids locked their divorcing parents in a basement, forcing them to reconcile. It worked.
*This is my chance,* Alfie realised.
“Where’re you going?” Mum called as he headed for the door.
“Gonna ask Mr. Thompson if he’s got a pump.” Outside, he unhooked the padlock, slipped behind the door, and slammed it shut, clicking the lock into place.
His heart pounded. He didn’t want to imagine their fury later—but they couldn’t get out without him. He clenched the key in his fist.
“Alfie, this isn’t funny! Open the door!” Mum banged. “He’s locked us in! *Do something*!”
“Alfie, open up. No shouting, I promise,” Dad said sternly. “Enough messing about.”
“This is *your* fault!” Mum’s voice rose. “You’re never home—never *here* when he needs you—”
Alfie stepped back, drowning them out. If anyone walked past, they might call the police.
His mind raced. *Does Dad have someone else?* He thought of how Mum used to smile, how they’d all play-fight like kids. When had that stopped? *Doesn’t Dad love us anymore?* The thought burned.
He crept closer. The shouting had quieted.
“Alfie, unlock the door,” Dad called.
“I will when you stop fighting. I’m *sick* of it. Just *talk* for once. I don’t want you to split up. I want it like before.” His voice cracked.
Silence. Then footsteps. Alfie walked away, scrubbing his sleeve over his eyes.
He wandered the alleyways behind the garages. Jack rang, but Alfie ignored it. He didn’t want to talk. He *did* want to be like Dad—once, he’d worn Dad’s jumper for hours, refusing to let Mum wash it, clinging to his scent.
Exhausted,He sat on the kerb outside the garage, clutching the key tight, hoping—just hoping—they’d still be laughing when he opened the door.
