Hannah walked home from school in high spirits. Today, the class had collected money for flowers and a gift for their form teacher. And Andrew had said girls love roses—he’d looked right at her when he said it, like it was meant for her.
Her heart fluttered at his attention. Maybe this was his hint for International Women’s Day. The other girls would be so jealous.
She’d liked him the moment he first walked into class last September. His dad had been transferred to the military base nearby, and Andrew carried himself with this easy confidence, like he didn’t care what anyone thought. That’s what drew her in—she always worried about slipping up, looking silly, saying the wrong thing.
The boys respected him straight away. He wasn’t the loudest, but even the teachers listened when he spoke.
Late February, but spring teased the air—birds singing at dawn, icicles dripping from rooftops, sunlight breaking through more often. Her chest ached with the promise of something magical.
Then she opened the front door and heard shouting. Again.
Her spirits plummeted. It used to be good—holidays at the seaside, Christmases with sparklers in the garden. What if they got divorced? Would any of that ever happen again?
Her classmate Lily’s mum had slit her wrists after her dad left. Lily cried in lessons for weeks. And Sophie said it was actually better—her parents lived apart now, both buying her gifts, both handing her cash. But was happiness just gifts and money?
The shouting stopped. Hannah tiptoed to the kitchen door, cracked open. Dad stood by the window, back to her. Mum sat at the table, face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking.
“Calm down,” Dad said without turning. “Hannah’ll be home soon. What do I have to do to make you believe me?” Then he glanced back and saw her.
“How long have you been eavesdropping?” he snapped.
“Long enough,” she shot back.
“Understand what?” Mum lifted her face—swollen, smeared mascara. *How can she not see she’s pushing him further away?* Hannah thought bitterly.
“You want a divorce,” she blurted.
Dad frowned but stayed silent.
“Did you even think about me? Decided who I’ll live with yet? Or does my opinion not matter? I don’t want to *choose*—I want *both* of you!” Her voice cracked. “If you’re so sick of each other, fine! I’ll find new parents. I *hate* you!”
She whirled, shoved her feet into trainers, and slammed the door behind her.
No lift—she took the stairs two at a time. Outside, she yanked on gloves, debating which friend to turn up at. But she didn’t want to talk. If even her parents didn’t care, who would?
The streets glittered. By day, melting icicles crashed from rooftops; now, frost sharpened the air. Two bus stops later, she ducked into a corner shop for warmth. The smell of sausage rolls made her stomach growl.
She found a few pound coins in her pocket, bought a stale pastry, and devoured it outside.
“Alright?”
She spun. Jacob from Year 10 stood there, sports bag slung over his shoulder.
“M’fine,” she mumbled through a mouthful.
He handed her a water bottle. “Don’t choke.”
She gulped it down. “Ta.”
“Your house is that way.” He nodded the opposite direction.
“Not your business.”
“It’s dark. Not safe alone. C’mon, I’ll walk you.”
She hesitated, then fell into step beside him. They talked about his football training, rubbish teachers, the upcoming match. At her street, she stopped.
“This you? Don’t wanna go home? Parents being prats? Been there.” He smirked.
“They’re splitting up,” she whispered.
“Ah. When my dad left, I ran off too. Thought if they had to look for me, they’d make up. Shared grief and all.”
“And?”
“They did. For a bit. Still left though. Spent two nights in a storage shed before the cops found me. Smell clung to my clothes for weeks.”
“And your dad?”
“Got a new wife. Pretty. Rude. Mum’s better.”
“She see anyone now?”
“Nah. Got me.” He shrugged. “Wouldn’t mind if she did, though. She loved him too much.”
“You say it so… easy.”
“Waste of energy, innit? Can’t change it. At least it’s quiet now. Before? Proper rows. Threw plates once.” He nudged her. “Want tea? Warm up.”
“Your mum won’t mind?”
“Won’t even notice. Telly’s on. We’ll sneak to my room.”
The streets emptied. Relenting, she followed.
His room was a narrow rectangle—band posters, a bookshelf with *Treasure Island*, *Sherlock Holmes*, and, oddly, *War Poets*.
“Old phase,” he said, catching her stare. “Tea’s brewing.”
He returned with toast and steaming mugs. She ate fast, exhaustion hitting. The sofa swallowed her.
She woke hours later, needing the loo. Jacob snored at the other end, curled under a blanket he’d draped over her.
“Up,” she whispered, poking his leg.
He jolted. “Wha—?”
“Bathroom. Don’t leave me.”
He flicked the hall light on.
“I should go,” she said after.
“Now? It’s half two.”
“Not far. I’m fine.”
“Not a chance.” He laced his trainers. “Worst-case, I’ll sleep on your sofa.”
A shoehorn clattered to the floor.
“Shh!” she hissed.
“Relax. She’s on night shift.”
“You *lied*?”
“Would you’ve come if I said she wasn’t here?”
Outside, the neighbourhood slept. Cold gnawed through her coat.
“Ta,” she muttered at her doorstep.
He shrugged. “Anytime.”
Inside, Mum pounced. “Where *were* you? We rang every A&E—”
Dad appeared. “You okay?”
“Fine.” She brushed past them.
At her bedroom door, she paused. “Night, Mum. Dad.”
She expected to lie awake but slept like a stone.
Breakfast was stiff. Dad had left for work.
“Well?” Mum asked.
“Well what?”
“If you mean the divorce… we’re not. For now.”
Mum sat opposite, eyes puffy.
“Because of me? Just suffer longer? Fine. But if you keep shouting, I *will* leave.”
Mum flinched. “We were terrified. Do I… look that bad?”
Hannah studied her. “Dunno. Same as the last five years. Maybe dye your hair. Wear lipstick. If you want Dad to stop sneaking his phone into the loo.”
Mum gaped.
“You asked.” Hannah stood. “School.”
Mum blurted, “I saw you with that boy last night. You were with *him*?”
“Jacob. From Year 10. *Nothing* happened.”
Days passed—no shouting, no talking.
A week later, Jacob waited at the school gates.
“Waiting for me?”
“Wondered how it’s going.”
“Truce,” she said.
He handed her a small box. “Open it at home.”
Inside: a silver necklace with a tiny heart.
Andrew hadn’t given her a second glance. Oddly, she didn’t care.
At her door, Jacob asked, “Hang out tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
Next morning, she fastened the necklace.
Mum and Dad huddled at the table. Mum had chopped her hair into a sleek bob—jet-black, lips red.
“We thought…” Dad shared a look with Mum. “Paintballing. Bring friends. The more, the madder it gets.”
“You’ll come?”
“If you’ll have us,” Mum said. “Bring your boy too.”
“Today?”
“Why not?” Dad grinned.
Hannah hugged them both. “Love you.”
Divorce wrecks kids, no matter their age. Sometimes, holding on just hurts worse. But if parents try again—why not? A fresh start might be just as broken. And you can’t erase the past.
