“What if Mum and Dad really do get divorced?” The awful thought twisted Harry’s stomach and brought tears to his eyes.
The three friends were walking home from school. The spring sun dazzled their eyes as they shoved each other playfully, laughing and teasing. At Edward’s house, they stopped.
“Fancy coming out on bikes tonight? Me and Dan had a brilliant ride through the park yesterday.”
Harry frowned. He’d been begging his father to fetch his bike from the shed for ages, but Dad never had time—always working late, promising weekends that never came, making excuses.
“You coming?” Edward repeated, nudging Harry in the shoulder.
“Dunno. Bike’s in the shed. If Dad gets home early…”
“Can’t you just grab it yourself? Whatever, we’ll be at the park by seven. Meet us there.” Edward held out his palm, and the boys took turns slapping it.
At the next block, Harry said goodbye to Dan. Maybe he should look for the shed key. Dad only used the shed for the car in winter—doubt he carried the key around. With a sudden burst of hope, Harry hurried home, the furthest of them all.
Inside, he changed quickly and rifled through the junk drawer where spare keys were kept. No luck. After another fruitless search, he gave up and started his homework. If he finished, Mum might hand over the key. Surprisingly, he was done in an hour and a half—usually, it took twice as long.
The front door clicked. “Mum!” Harry dashed to meet her.
“Hello,” she sighed, shuffling past him into the kitchen, arms loaded with groceries. Harry trailed after her as she stocked the fridge.
“Why didn’t you eat the pasta and meatballs? Just had sandwiches again?” She handed him a packet of oats to put away.
“Mum, where’s the shed key?”
“What for?”
“My bike.”
“Homework done?” She shut the fridge and stared at him.
“All finished—check if you want,” he offered eagerly.
“The key…” Mum glanced absently around the kitchen. “Can’t remember. Wait for your father—he’ll know where it is.”
“And when’s that? Midnight?” Harry snapped. “The others have been riding for ages. Why did we even have to store it in the shed? Could’ve left it on the balcony. Not like you and Dad will have time for me when he *does* get back. Too busy rowing.” His voice dropped to a mutter. “Sick of it.”
His mood plummeted. He turned sharply and stomped to his room, slamming the door.
Lately, Dad was always working late. Mum and he argued constantly, voices sharp with words like *divorce*. Harry couldn’t imagine it. Sure, Dad barely asked about school anymore. They hadn’t done anything as a family in ages. Once, Dad came home on time, asked how school was. Harry had started talking eagerly—then stopped. Dad’s eyes were miles away.
Mum had instantly launched into how Dad couldn’t care less, how he was missing Harry’s crucial years… Harry had shut himself in his room, trying not to listen. But how could he *not* hear them shouting?
All his mates had normal families. Edward and his dad went fishing, watched football. Dan was hardly ever home—always off on family trips. Harry sighed.
Sitting cross-legged on his bed, he held an open book but hadn’t read a word. Mum entered, perched on the edge, reached to ruffle his hair. He pulled away.
“Found the shed key. If your homework’s really done…”
“Told you, it *is*,” Harry interrupted.
“Fine. Get dressed. We’ll go together.”
Harry snapped the book shut, flung it aside, yanked on his hoodie, and jumped up.
“Ready!”
“Just promise you won’t ride on the roads. Stick to the park or pavements,” Mum said, standing.
The shed wasn’t far. Five minutes later, Harry wrestled with the rusted lock, yanking the metal door open with a screech.
“I’ve told him a hundred times to oil these hinges,” Mum muttered, stepping inside. She flicked the switch, and a bare bulb lit the cramped space. Junk filled every corner—tools, old furniture, boxes of who-knew-what. The shed was more storage than anything else.
The warmth of the sun-heated metal clung to the air, thick with the smell of oil and petrol. Harry spotted his bike hanging high on the wall.
“Can’t reach. Get the stool,” Mum said.
Harry wobbled precariously as he stood on it.
“Careful—” Mum steadied his legs.
“Not helping. Just hold the stool.” Harry heard his own voice—curiously like Dad’s impatient tone.
He heaved the bike but couldn’t lift it free.
“Let me try,” Mum offered.
“I’ve got it!” Harry shoved harder. The stool tilted. “Mum—*hold it!*”
She caught the bike just as he nearly dropped it. Harry jumped down, triumphant.
“Tyres are flat. Needs a pump,” Mum said. “Look for it.”
Harry rummaged through shelves but found nothing.
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll borrow Edward’s.”
Then Mum’s phone rang.
“Your father,” she said, answering. “We’re in the shed… Harry needed his bike. You’re home *early*?” Her voice turned sharp. “Oh, suddenly you’ve got time?”
She listened, scowling. “Fine. Forget it. Just tell me where the pump is.” A pause. She hung up, glaring. “He doesn’t *remember*. Shock. Said he’s coming. Wait for him?” She perched unsteadily on the stool.
“Homework *definitely* done? Exams are soon—”
The shed door flew open. Dad stood there.
Harry brightened. “I got the bike down myself! But the tyres—”
He stopped. Mum wasn’t looking at Dad. And Dad was avoiding her gaze. They were like strangers. Harry’s excitement vanished, replaced by a sick chill despite the stuffy heat.
Dad hunted for the pump while Harry watched. *What if they really do split up?* The thought tightened his throat.
He remembered a film where kids locked their divorcing parents in a basement to force them to talk. Maybe now was his chance.
“Where are you going?” Mum called as Harry headed out.
“Checking if Uncle Rob’s home—might borrow his pump.”
Outside, he spotted the padlock dangling. A quick glance—no one around. He unhooked it, slipped behind the door, slammed it shut, and clicked the lock. Pressed his back to the metal, heart racing.
“Harry! Open this *now*!” Mum banged the door. “He’s locked us in—do something!”
“Open up. No shouting, I promise,” Dad said sternly. “Enough jokes.”
“This is *your* fault! I’ve told you he needs you—” Mum’s voice rose.
Harry stepped away, but not far. If someone called the police…
What if Dad had someone else? And Mum—he remembered her laughter, how they used to joke around like kids. Had Dad stopped loving them?
He crept back. The shouting had stopped.
“Harry, open it,” Dad called.
“Not till you stop fighting. I’m *sick* of it. Just *talk*.” His voice cracked. “I want it like before.”
Silence. Then quiet murmurs.
Harry walked in circles, ignoring Edward’s call. He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to be like Dad—once, he’d worn Dad’s jumper for hours, refusing to let Mum wash it, clinging to his scent.
Eventually, he wandered home, losing himself in telly until dark. Panicked, he sprinted back to the shed.
Silence.
Hands shaking, he unlocked the door.
Inside, Mum and Dad sat close at the old table, her head on his shoulder. They didn’t even scold him.
“You alright?” Harry panted.
Dad shifted. “Up you get. Punishment’s over.” He stretched. “Tyres are pumped. Starving.” His tone was calm, ordinary.
Harry couldn’t believe it. *Had it worked?*
“We’ll talk about *this* later,” Mum said, standing.
“Ought to wallop you for that stunt,” Dad added mildly, glancing at Mum.
And she *smiled*.
Dad locked up, and they walked home, arms around each other. Harry wheeled his bike, stealing glances.
“Lovely evening. Almost summer,” Dad said. “Fancy going to Paul’s cottage for the bank holiday? He’s always asking.”
“Let’s,” Mum said lightly. “Feels like forever since we went anywhere.”
A *miracle*. No eye-roll, no *”You actually mean it this time?”*
At home, Mum reheated dinner for Dad while Harry sipped tea. It felt… normal. Easy.
Would it last? If not—he knew what to do.
The next morning, Harry woke to the sound of quiet laughter drifting from the kitchen, and for the first time in months, he didn’t hold his breath waiting for the shouting to start.
