**Until Next Summer**
Early summer stretched beyond the windowlong days, green leaves pressed against the glass like they were deliberately shielding the room from excess light. The flats windows were wide open; the quiet hum of birdsong and the occasional shout of children from the street drifted inside. This was a home where everything had long settled into its place, inhabited by forty-five-year-old Claire and her seventeen-year-old son, Oliver. This June felt differentless like fresh beginnings and more like a tension that lingered, stubborn even with the breeze threading through the rooms.
Claire would remember the morning the A-level results arrived for a long time. Oliver sat at the kitchen table, hunched over his phone, shoulders tense. He stayed silent while she hovered by the stove, searching for the right words. “Mum, it didnt work out,” he finally said, his voice steady but worn thin. Exhaustion had become familiar this past yearfor both of them. Oliver barely left the house after school, studying for exams on his own, attending free revision sessions at the sixth form. Shed tried not to pushbringing him peppermint tea, sitting beside him in wordless solidarity. Now it was all starting again.
For Claire, the news was like a bucket of cold water. Resits had to be arranged through school, meaning mountains of paperwork. Private tutors were out of reach financially. Olivers father had lived separately for years, entirely absent. That evening, they ate dinner in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Claires mind racedwhere to find affordable tutors, how to persuade Oliver to try again, whether she had the strength to keep supporting him without crumbling herself.
Oliver moved through those days on autopilot. A stack of notebooks sat beside his laptop in his room. He flipped through past maths and English papersthe same problems hed tackled months ago. Sometimes he stared out the window so long it seemed he might vanish. His answers to questions were clipped. She could see the frustration in him, the sting of returning to material that had already defeated him once. But there was no choice. No A-levels, no university. So back to work he went.
The next evening, they sat down to make a plan. Claire opened her laptop. “Maybe we could try someone new?” she suggested carefully.
“I can handle it myself,” Oliver muttered.
She sighed. She knew he was too proud to ask for help. But handling it himself had landed them here. For a moment, she wanted to pull him into a hug, but she held back. Instead, she nudged the conversation toward schedulinghow many hours a day he could manage, which subjects needed the most attention, what had tripped him up last time. Slowly, the tension eased. Both knew there was no going back.
Over the next few days, Claire rang contacts and scoured local tutor listings. The schools parents chat yielded a maths tutorMargaret, stern but thorough. They arranged a trial session. Oliver listened half-heartedly, still wary. But when Claire brought him a list of potential tutors for English and sociology, he reluctantly agreed to look through the profiles with her.
The first weeks of summer slipped into a new rhythm. Breakfast at the kitchen tableporridge, lemon or mint tea, sometimes strawberries from the market. Then maths tutoring, online or in-person depending on Margarets schedule. Afternoons were for practice papers; evenings for reviewing mistakes or calls to other tutors.
Fatigue crept infor both of them. By the second week, small things frayed: forgotten loaves of bread, the iron left on, snapping over minor annoyances. One evening at dinner, Oliver slammed his fork down.
“Stop micromanaging me! Im not a kid!”
She tried to explainshe just wanted to help structure his day. He only glared out the window.
By mid-summer, it was clear their old approach wasnt working. Some tutors drilled relentlessly; others tossed out impossible questions without guidance. Oliver often came home drained. Claire watched, guilt gnawing at herhad she pushed too hard? The flat stayed stuffy even with the windows open, heat clinging like the unspoken worry between them.
A few times, she tried suggesting walks or tripsanything to break the monotony. But conversations spiralled: hed scoff at wasting time, shed counter with lists of topics he hadnt mastered.
Then one evening, everything boiled over. Olivers maths mock had gone disastrously. He stormed into his room and slammed the door. Later, Claire knocked softly.
“Can we talk?”
Silence. Then:
“Im scared Ill fail again.”
She sat on the edge of his bed.
“Im scared for you too. But I see how hard youre trying.”
He met her eyes.
“What if its not enough?”
“Then we figure it out. Together.”
They talked for nearly an hourfears of falling behind, how exhausted they both were, the absurd pressure of exams. They admitted the truth: chasing perfection was pointless. They needed a plan that actually worked.
That night, they redid the schedulefewer hours, built-in breaks, walks twice a week. They agreed to voice frustrations before they festered.
Olivers window stayed open more often after that, evening air replacing the days heaviness. The house felt quieter, softer. He pinned the new timetable to his wall, marking rest days in bright highlighter so they wouldnt forget.
At first, the new routine felt unnatural. Claires fingers itched to check if hed done his mocks. But shed catch herself, remembering their talk. Evenings now included short walksno talk of exams, just idle chatter. Oliver still came home tired, but the anger faded. He started asking for help unprompted, knowing shed listen without judgment.
Progress came quietly. One day, Margaret texted: “Oliver solved two extended questions alone today. Hes learning from mistakes.” Claire read it twice, grinning like it was a lottery win. At dinner, she mentioned it casuallyno fanfare, just acknowledgment. Oliver rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched.
Next, he aced a practice essay. He brought the paper to hersomething he hadnt done in months. “Think Im getting the hang of structuring arguments,” he mumbled. She hugged his shoulders wordlessly.
Bit by bit, the house warmed. Late-summer berries appeared at tea-time; dinners were less about revision lists and more about weekend plans. Mistakes became things to laugh atonce, Oliver scribbled a joke in the margin about exam questions being designed by sadists. Claires laughter startled them both.
Conversations stretched beyond A-levelsfilms, his playlists, vague September plans. They were relearning how to trust each other outside of schoolwork.
As August waned, Claire realised she wasnt sneaking peeks at his timetable anymore. Oliver stopped bristling at household requests. The pressure had lifted.
One night, over tea by the open window, they talked about the year ahead.
“If I get in…” Oliver trailed off.
Claire smiled. “If not, well sort it. Together.”
He looked at her properly. “Thanks. For sticking with me through all this.”
She waved him off. “We stuck with each other.”
They knew thered be more work, more uncertainty. But the fear of facing it alone was gone.
By late August, mornings carried a chill; yellow leaves peppered the trees outside. Oliver stacked textbooks for another session. Claire filled the kettleordinary motions, now laced with calm.
Theyd sent off the resit forms early, avoiding last-minute panic. Each day held not just study plans, but walks or grocery trips together. They still bickered sometimes, but now they knew how to pause, to say what they felt before silence turned to distance.
By September, one thing was clear: whatever next summers results held, theyd already changed. Theyd become a team where before theyd struggled alone. Learned to celebrate small wins instead of waiting for validation from grades.
The future was still unwrittenbut it felt brighter, simply because now, neither would walk into it alone.
