Lottie walked home from school in high spirits. Today, the class had collected money for flowers and a gift for their form teacher. Andrew had mentioned that women adored roses, and when he said it, his gaze lingered just a moment too long—as if the words were meant for her alone. Her heart fluttered at the thought. Perhaps it was a hint about his Mother’s Day gift. The other girls would be so jealous.
She’d fancied him from the first day he stepped into the classroom. Last year, his father had been transferred to the local military base, and Andrew carried himself with a quiet confidence, unbothered by what others thought. That was what drew Lottie to him. She, on the other hand, fretted over every little thing, terrified of embarrassment.
The boys in class respected Andrew instantly—not because he demanded it, but because he spoke with a certainty even the teachers admired.
Though it was still late February, spring teased at the edges of the day: birdsong at dawn, sun melting the stubborn frost, icicles dripping like chimes from the eaves. Lottie’s chest tightened with the promise of something wondrous.
Then she pushed open the front door, and the shouting began.
Her parents were at it again. The warmth inside her turned to ice. Why did it always have to be like this? Once, things had been so different—family holidays by the seaside, Christmas firecrackers in the garden. But now? What if they divorced? Would those memories vanish forever?
One of her classmates, Sophie, had slit her wrists after her father left. She’d cried through lessons for weeks. Another girl, Emily, said it was easier when parents lived apart—twice the gifts, twice the pocket money. But was happiness really measured in presents?
The shouting stopped. Lottie tiptoed to the kitchen door and peeked in. Dad stood at the window, shoulders rigid. Mum sat at the table, face buried in her hands, trembling.
“Calm yourself,” Dad muttered, not turning. “Lottie will be home soon. What do I have to do to make you believe me?” Then he glanced back and spotted her.
“How long have you been eavesdropping?” he snapped.
“Long enough,” she shot back.
“To understand what?” Mum lifted her face—swollen, red, mascara streaked down her cheeks.
Lottie bit back irritation. *Doesn’t she realise that look will only push him further away?*
“You’re getting a divorce,” she blurted.
Dad frowned but stayed silent.
“Did either of you even think about me? Who I’d live with? There are three of us here! Or does my opinion not matter?” Her voice cracked. “I don’t want to choose—I want *both* of you! If you’re sick of each other, then fine—I want new parents! I *hate* you!”
She spun on her heel, grabbed her coat, and slammed the door behind her.
Mum’s voice chased her down the stairwell, but Lottie ignored it. Outside, she tugged on her gloves, mind racing. Where could she go? None of her friends would understand—not when even her own parents had no time for her.
The day’s thaw had given way to an evening chill. Two bus stops later, she ducked into a corner shop just to warm up. The smell of fresh sausage rolls made her stomach growl. She dug a few coins from her pocket and bought one.
The moment she stepped outside, she tore into it.
“Oi.”
She turned, mouth full, to see Toby from the year below.
“Out for a stroll?” he asked, nodding at her half-eaten roll.
She tried to swallow, but the bread stuck in her throat.
“Here.” He fished a water bottle from his gym bag. “If you don’t mind sharing.”
Gratefully, she gulped it down. “Ta.” She handed it back and turned to leave.
“Your place is the other way,” he noted.
“Mind your business,” she snapped.
“It’s dark. Not safe on your own, and shops’ll be closing soon. Let me walk you.”
She hesitated, then fell into step beside him. They talked—football trials, teachers, detentions—until her street came into view.
“Here?” Toby paused. “You don’t wanna go home, eh? Parents being tossers?” He smirked.
“They’re divorcing,” she whispered.
“Ah. When my dad left, I ran off too. Thought if they had to find me, maybe they’d stop fighting. Shared grief and all that.”
“Did it work?”
“Made up while searching for me. Still split, though. I holed up in a shed for two nights before the coppers found me. Stank of petrol—couldn’t shake the smell for weeks.”
“And your dad?”
“New wife. Pretty, but a right cow. Mum’s better off.”
“You say it so easily.”
“Why fret? Won’t change anything. At least it’s quiet now. No more rows—or worse. Silver linings, yeah? Fancy coming to mine? I’ll make tea.”
She balked. “Your mum won’t mind?”
“Won’t even notice. Telly’s her evening religion. We’ll sneak straight to my room.”
She glanced at the empty street. Frost glittered on the pavement.
“Alright.”
His house was farther down, past the school. No wonder they’d never spoken before.
“See your dad much?” she asked.
“Sometimes. His life, ours. No fuss.”
His room was long and narrow, plastered with old posters—motorbikes, action stars.
“Kid stuff,” he said, shrugging. “Make yourself comfy. I’ll fetch food.”
While he was gone, she scanned his bookshelf—*Treasure Island*, *Sherlock Holmes*, a battered poetry anthology. Not what she’d expected.
He returned with tea and a plate of beans on toast.
“Two sugars. Enough?”
“Yeah.” She eyed the steaming food. “You’re not eating?”
“Already did.”
“Did your mum…?”
“Asleep. Surgeon. Long shifts.”
She ate quickly, then slumped onto the sofa. Exhaustion hit like a brick.
She woke hours later, needing the loo. Too scared to navigate the dark flat alone, she nudged Toby awake.
“Wha—?”
“Shh! I need the toilet. Come with me?”
He groaned but led her down the hall.
“Wait here,” she whispered, turning on the tap to muffle the sound.
When she stepped out, he was leaning against the wall.
“I should go home,” she said.
“Now? It’s half two.”
“It’s not far.”
“Not a chance.” He grabbed his trainers—then dropped a shoehorn with a clatter.
“You’ll wake your mum!”
“She’s not here. Night shift.”
“You *lied*?”
“Would you’ve come if I said I was alone?”
Outside, the streets were dead. Frost bit through her coat.
At her doorstep, she mumbled, “Cheers.”
“Anytime,” he tossed back, already walking away.
Inside, Mum pounced. “We phoned every hospital!”
Dad appeared in the hallway. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” She brushed past them.
At her bedroom door, she paused. “Night, Mum. Dad.”
She expected to lie awake, but sleep swallowed her whole.
Next morning, Mum cornered her at breakfast.
“Nothing to say?”
“You?” Lottie countered.
Dad had already left for work.
“If you mean the divorce… we’re not. For now.” Mum sat opposite, eyes puffy. “We were terrified.”
“Because of me? Don’t stay miserable for my sake. One more row, and I *will* leave.” The words tasted borrowed—Toby’s wisdom.
Mum hesitated. “Do I… look awful?”
“Honestly? You’ve looked like this for years. Get a haircut. Wear colour. Maybe then Dad wouldn’t sneak his phone into the loo.”
Mum flinched.
“You asked.” Lottie stood. “You’ve let yourself go. Change it—if you care.”
“I saw you with that boy last night.”
“Toby. From school. It wasn’t—”
“Just be careful.”
For days, the house stayed silent—no fights, no talk.
Then, days before Mother’s Day, Toby waited for her after school.
“You alright?” he asked.
“Truce,” she said.
He pulled a small box from his bag. “For you. Open it later.”
Andrew hadn’t so much as glanced at her, let alone given flowers. Strangely, she didn’t care.
Toby walked her home.
“Fancy the park tomorrow?” he asked at her door.
“Yeah.”
That night, she fell asleep smiling.
Next morning, she fastened Toby’s gift—a silver heart pendant—around her neck.
In the kitchen, her parents sat conspiratorially. Mum had chopped her hair intoOn the way to the park, the heart pendant glinted in the sunlight, a quiet reminder that even broken families could find new ways to mend.
