Till Next Summer
The early summer stretched beyond the window, long and golden-green, the leaves pressing against the glass as if shielding the room from too much light. The windows stood wide open, letting in the quiet hum of birdsong and the occasional laughter of children from the street below. In this flat, where every object had long settled into its place, lived twoSylvia, a woman of forty-five, and her seventeen-year-old son, Oliver. This June felt different, the air not so much fresh as thick with a tension that lingered even when the breeze swept through.
The morning the A-level results arrived, Sylvia knew she would remember it for years. Oliver sat hunched at the kitchen table, eyes fixed on his phone, shoulders rigid. He said nothing, and she stood by the stove, searching for words. “Mum, it didnt work,” he finally said, his voice steady but tired. That weariness had become familiar over the past yearfor both of them. After school, Oliver barely went out, studying alone or attending free tutoring sessions at the sixth form. She tried not to press him, bringing him tea with mint, sometimes sitting beside him in silence. Now it was all starting again.
For Sylvia, the news hit like ice water. A retake was possible, but only through the schoolanother round of paperwork, another wait. Private tutors were beyond their means. Olivers father had long since moved out and played no part in their lives. That evening, they ate in silence, each lost in thought. She turned over optionswhere to find affordable tutors, how to convince Oliver to try again, whether she had the strength to keep them both steady.
Oliver moved through those days as if on autopilot. His room held stacks of notebooks beside his laptop, the same maths and English papers hed tackled in spring spread out before him. Sometimes he stared out the window so long it seemed he might vanish through it. He answered questions in clipped replies. She saw how it hurt him to return to the same material, but there was no choice. Without the A-levels, university was out of reach.
The next evening, they sat down to plan. Sylvia opened her laptop and suggested searching for tutors. “Maybe someone new could help?” she ventured. “I can manage on my own,” he muttered. She sighed. She knew he was ashamed to ask for help. But hed tried alone beforeand this was the result. For a moment, she wanted to pull him close, but she held back. Instead, she nudged the conversation toward scheduleshow many hours a day he could study, what had tripped him up last time. Slowly, the talk softened. They both knew there was no turning back.
Days later, Sylvia rang through old contacts, scrolling through school forums until she found a maths tutorMargaret, who agreed to a trial session. Oliver listened half-heartedly, still wary. But when she brought him a list of potential tutors for English and sociology, he reluctantly agreed to look.
The first weeks of summer fell into a new rhythm. Breakfast togetherporridge, tea with lemon or mint, sometimes early berries from the market. Then tutoringonline or at home, depending on Margarets schedule. Afternoons for practice papers, evenings for reviewing mistakes or calls with other tutors.
The exhaustion grewfor both of them. By the second week, tension bristled in small thingsforgotten bread, an unplugged iron, sharp words over nothing. Over dinner one night, Oliver slammed his fork down. “Why do you keep checking on me? Im not a child!” She tried to explainshe only wanted to help him organize his day. But he just turned to the window, silent.
By midsummer, it was clear the old approach wasnt working. Some tutors drilled relentlessly; others set tasks without guidance. Oliver came home drained. Sylvia watched, angry at herselfhad she pushed too hard? The flat stayed stuffy even with the windows open, the heat clinging to skin and temper alike.
Twice, she tried to talk about walks or breaksjust a change of scene. But the talks always spiraledeither he saw it as wasted time, or she listed gaps in his knowledge, mapping out the next weeks study plan.
One evening, the strain snapped. The maths tutor had given Oliver a brutal mock exam; the result was worse than expected. He came home dark-eyed, shutting his door behind him. Later, Sylvia heard a faint knock and stepped inside. “Can we talk?” she asked. He hesitated, then said, “Im scared Ill fail again.” She sat beside him. “Im scared for you too. But I see you trying.” He met her gaze. “What if its not enough?” “Then well figure it outtogether.”
They talked for nearly an hourabout fear, exhaustion, the relentless chase for marks. They agreed: waiting for perfection was foolish. They needed a plan that fit them.
That night, they made a new schedulefewer study hours, time set aside for walks, a promise to voice frustrations before they fester. Olivers window stayed open more often now, evening air easing the days weight. After that talk, the house held a fragile calm. He pinned the new timetable to his wall, marking rest days in bright ink so neither would forget.
At first, the rhythm felt strange. Sylvia still caught herself wanting to check if hed done the mocks or called the tutor. But she stopped, remembering their talk. Some evenings, they walked to the shops or just around the blockno talk of exams, just idle chatter. Oliver still came home tired, but the anger faded. He asked for help more oftennot from fear of scolding, but because he knew shed listen.
The first small victories came quietly. One day, Margaret texted: “Oliver solved two advanced problems today. Hes learning from his mistakes.” Sylvia read it twice, smiling as if it were far grander news. At dinner, she praised him lightlyno fuss, just acknowledgment. He shrugged, but his mouth twitched.
Next came an essayhis highest mock score yet. He showed her unprompted, a rare thing these months. “Think Im getting the hang of arguments,” he mumbled. She hugged his shoulders.
Bit by bit, the house warmednot suddenly, but like a slow shift in light. Late berries appeared at tea-time; sometimes they brought home tomatoes from the stall near the Tube. Dinners were longer nowschool gossip, weekend plans, not just revision lists.
Even the study sessions changed. Mistakes were no longer catastrophes but puzzles to solve, sometimes with jokes. Once, Oliver scribbled a rant about exam wording in the marginSylvia laughed so hard he joined in.
Gradually, talk stretched beyond A-levelsfilms, his playlists, vague plans for September. They were learning to trust each other again.
The days shortened; the sun no longer burned into evening, the air rich with late summer and distant voices from the street. Sometimes Oliver went out alone or met classmates by the school gatesSylvia let him go without worry, knowing the work would wait.
By mid-August, she realized she no longer checked his schedule at night. She believed him when he said hed studied. Oliver, too, bristled less at questions or choresthe old tension had eased with the chase for perfection.
One night, over tea by the open window, they spoke of the year ahead. “If I get in” Oliver began, then stopped. Sylvia smiled. “If not, well find another way.” He looked at her. “Thanks. For sticking with me.” She waved it off. “We stuck together.”
They both knewthere was still work ahead, still uncertainty. But the fear of facing it alone was gone.
In the last days of August, mornings carried a crispness; yellow leaves dotted the trees outside, hints of autumn and fresh challenges. Oliver gathered books for another tutoring session; Sylvia put the kettle onthe motions quieter now, steadier.
Theyd already submitted the retake paperwork, avoiding a last-minute rushone small step toward confidence.
Now each day held not just timetables and to-do lists, but plans for walks or trips to the shops. Sometimes they snapped over small things or the grind of revision, but theyd learned to speak before silence turned to distance.
By September, one truth was clear: whatever the next years results, something had already changed. Theyd become a team where once theyd struggled alonesharing small wins instead of waiting for approval from marks or exam boards.
The future was still uncertain. But it held more light, if only because no one would walk into it alone.
