I’ll Remind You – Mrs. Mary Edwards, This Swirl Won’t Work, Murmured a Sad Year 2 Student, Tommy, Pointing His Brush at the Stubborn Green Petal Curl on His Painted Flower. “Ease Up on the Brush, Darling… That’s It—Glide It as Softly as a Feather on Your Palm. Beautiful! Not Just Any Swirl—A Masterpiece!” Smiled the Elderly Teacher. “Who’s the Lucky Recipient of Your Lovely Painting?” “It’s for Mum!” Tommy Beamed, Triumphant After Fixing the Petal. “It’s Her Birthday, and This Is My Gift!”—His Pride Swelling Under the Teacher’s Praise. “Your Mum’s a Lucky Lady, Tom. Let the Paint Dry Before You Rip the Page Out—She’ll Love It!” Mrs. Edwards Glanced Fondly at Tommy’s Bent-Over Head, Thinking to Call His Mum and Suggest Art School—Such Talents Shouldn’t Go to Waste, and She Could Ask If the Gift Was Well Received… Mrs. Edwards Couldn’t Tear Her Eyes from the Living, Spiraling Leaves and Recalled How Tom Had His Mother’s Artistic Gift—Larissa Drew Beautifully at His Age… But That Evening, a Phone Call: “Mrs. Edwards, It’s Larissa, Tommy Carter’s Mum—I’m Phoning to Say He Won’t Be In Tomorrow,” Came the Stern Voice. “Is Something Wrong?” “You Could Say That! He Ruined My Birthday—Now He’s in Bed with a Fever, and the Ambulance Only Just Left.” “But He Was Fine at School—He Had Your Gift…” “You Mean That Mess?” “What Mess, Larissa! They Were Flowers! I Was Going to Recommend Art School…” “All I Saw Was a Mucky Smudge, Not Quite What I Expected!” Mrs. Edwards Grew Increasingly Concerned, Listening to Larissa’s Frazzled Explanation, Finally Suggesting She Call Round—She Lived Nearby… Minutes Later, With Her Former Student’s Permission, Mrs. Edwards Grabbed a Bulging Old Photo Album of Her First, Beloved Class, and Set Off. In Larissa’s Chaotic Kitchen, Amidst Dirty Dishes and a Half-Eaten Cake, She Learned the Whole Sorry Story—How Tommy Came Home Late, Muddy and Soaked, With a Shivering Puppy He’d Rescued from Bullies Dumping It in a Thawing Ditch, How His Books Were Ruined, His Folder Smudged, and How He Soon Came Down with a High Fever… How the Birthday Guests Left Unserved, and the Paramedic Told Her Off for Neglect… “I Took the Puppy Back to the Dump When Tommy Fell Asleep. The Album’s Drying on the Radiator—There Isn’t Much Left after That Soaking!” Larissa Scoffed, Unnerved by Mrs. Edwards Growing Grim. When She Heard the Fate of the Rescued Pup, Mrs. Edwards Turned As Stern as Thunder, Stroked the Ruined Album, and Spoke Softly of Spiraling Green Leaves, of Flowers Come Alive, of Courage Unbecoming a Child, of Injustice, and of Bullies Who’d Thrown a Defenseless Animal Away… She Led Larissa to the Window: “See That Ditch There? Not Only Could That Puppy Have Drowned—So Could Tommy. All He Was Thinking About Was Not Ruining the Flowers He’d Painted for You. Have You Forgotten, Larissa, How You Cried on That Playground Bench, Clutching a Scruffy Kitten You’d Saved from the Local Yobs, Waiting for Your Mum?” She Showed a Faded Photo of a Delicate Girl in a White Pinafore Hugging a Fluffy Kitten, Smiling at Her Gathered Classmates, and Quietly Reminded Her of the Kindness That, Once Upon a Time, Bloomed Brightly in Larissa’s Own Heart. Out Tumbled a Old Child’s Drawing—A Little Girl Holding a Kitten With One Hand, Clutching Her Mum’s Hand With the Other… “If I Had My Way,” Mrs. Edwards Continued Firmly, “I’d Kiss That Puppy and Tommy Both, and Frame Those Colourful Smudges! There’s No Better Gift for a Mother Than to Raise a True Human Being!” Unseen, Her Words Broke Through. Larissa Kept Glancing Toward Tommy’s Closed Door, Clutching the Damp Album With White Knuckles… Then, Suddenly: “Mrs. Edwards! Please, Would You Watch Tommy for Just a Moment? I’ll Be Quick—Just a Minute!” Coat Hurriedly Thrown On, Larissa Rushed Out, Not Caring About Wet Shoes or Mud, Calling and Searching at the Dump for That Tiny Puppy—Glancing Back Anxiously at Home… Would Tommy Forgive Her? ***** “Tom, Who’s That Burying His Nose in the Flowers? Is That Your Pal—Digger?” “That’s Him, Mrs. Edwards! See the White Star on His Paw? Mum Bought a Special Little Tub to Wash Him—She Says If You Have a Friend, Look After Him!” “You’ve Got a Wonderful Mum,” Mrs. Edwards Smiled. “Drawing Her Another Picture?” “Yep—This Time for a Frame! She’s Got Those Smudges Framed and Smiles at Them—But, Mrs. Edwards, Can You Really Smile at Smudges?” “Maybe You Can… If They’re from the Heart. Tell Me, How’s Art School Going?” “Brilliant! Soon I’ll Paint Mum’s Portrait—She’ll Love That! Meanwhile—Look!” Tommy Pulled Out A Folded Sheet: “This Is From Mum—She Draws Too, Now!” Mrs. Edwards Unfolded the Paper and Squeezed Tommy’s Shoulder. On the White Page, Splashed in Bright Colours, Smiled a Radiant Tommy, His Hand on the Head of a Loyal, Loving Mutt. Next to Them, a Tiny Blonde Girl in a School Pinafore Cuddled a Kitten… and from Behind a Book-Laden Teacher’s Desk Smiled Mrs. Edwards Herself, Her Eyes Full of Endless Wisdom. In Every Line and Brushstroke, Mrs. Edwards Felt the Unspoken, Boundless Pride of a Mother. With a Tearful Smile, She Noticed In the Corner of the Drawing, Entwined in Flowering Curls and Green Swirls, a Single Word: “Remember.”

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 9 minViews 1

ILL REMIND YOU

Miss Mary, my curl wont come out right here, whispered young Thomas sadly, nudging his paintbrush at the stubborn, wayward green leaf of the flower hed been painting.

Just a gentler touch, darling. Thats it, let your brush dance softly, like a feather across your palm. There you go! What a lovely swirl youre making! smiled the elderly teacher. And whos this beautiful painting for?

For Mum! Thomas beamed, thrilled with himself for taming the unruly leaf. Its her birthday today! This is my gift! His pride swelled even more after his teachers praise.

Oh, your mum is a lucky woman, Tom. But dont close your sketchbook just yet. Give the paints a moment to dry so they dont smudge. Once youre home, then you can carefully take the page out. Im certain your mum will love it!

Miss Mary watched Thomass head bend over his sketchbook, smiled to herself, and made her way back to her desk.

What a gift for his mum! Its been ages since shes likely seen such a wonderful present. This boy has quite a talent for art! I must ring his mum, suggest art lessonssuch gifts shouldnt be wasted.

And Ill have to ask my former student if she liked her present. Even Miss Mary herself couldnt tear her eyes from those vivid flowers brought to life on the page. If she closed her eyes, she could almost hear them rustling, alive with their delicate green curls.

Oh, he takes after his mother! Definitely! Lara could draw beautifully at his age too…

*****

That evening, Miss Marys phone rang in her flat. Miss Mary, its Lara, Thomas Cotters mum, said a young womans voice, stiff and formal. I just wanted to let you know Thomas wont be in tomorrow.

Hello, Lara! Has something happened? Miss Mary asked kindly.

Yes! Hes ruined my whole birthday, the little rascal! Lara burst out. And now hes got a feverparamedics have only just left.

Hang on, Lara, a fever? He left school today perfectly well, bringing your present

You mean those smudges?

Smudges? What are you on about, Lara? He painted you such beautiful flowers! I was planning to call you myself, to talk about enrolling him in art classes

I dont know what flowers youre talking about, but I certainly wasnt expecting a filthy ball of fluff!

Ball of fluff? What do you mean? Miss Mary was beginning to fret. As she listened to Laras breathless explanations, her frown deepened. Tell you what, Larawould you mind if I popped over? Just for a minute, since we live so close…

Moments later, with Laras weary agreement, Miss Mary grabbed her thick album of faded photographs and treasured childhood drawings from her first ever classa lifetime agobefore hurrying out the door.

Lara ushered her guest into the bright but untidy kitchen. Clearing the cake away and piling dirty plates in the sink, she launched into the story:

How Thomas came home late from school, mud and water pouring off his coat and trousers

How he slipped a sopping-wet puppy from under his jacket, reeking of rubbish! Hed clambered into a freezing ditch after it, where some older lads had hurled the poor thing! Soggy textbooks, inky stains in his sketchbook that were a tragedy to behold. Then the fever, shooting up to nearly 39 degrees in an hour

How the guests left without even having cake, and the paramedic had a go at her for not keeping a closer eye on her child

So I took the wretched puppy back to the tip once Thomas nodded off. And the sketchbooks drying on the radiator, though theres barely a trace of flowers left after all that water! Lara huffed.

She didnt notice how Miss Marys face darkened more with every agitated word. And when she heard about the puppys fate, the teachers expression was thunderous. She glanced sternly at Lara, stroked the ruined sketchbook on the radiator, and spoke gently.

She spoke of green swirls and living flowers… of a boys dedication and courage. Of a heart unwilling to tolerate cruelty; of the bullies whod dumped a helpless pup in that ditch.

Then Miss Mary stood, took Lara by the hand, and led her to the window.

Theres the ditch, she pointed. A child might have drowned in it, never mind a puppy. But did Thomas think of himself then? Or, maybe, did he think about not ruining the flowers hed painted, that hed held his breath just to keep that gift safe?

What about you, Lara? Have you forgotten that day in the nineties, sitting on the school bench in tears, clutching a scrawny kitten youd rescued from the neighbourhood roughs? How we all stroked the kitten, waiting for your mum. And how you couldnt bear to go home, blaming your parents when the flea-ridden bundle was tossed outside… Thank heavens they changed their minds.

She shook her head. Let me remind you! And of Tibbles, your childhood cat, who you loved to bits. And Muttley, the floppy-eared mongrel who saw you through to sixth form. Even the crow with the broken wing you took charge of in the nature club…

Miss Mary fetched a large, yellowing photo from her album: a delicate girl in a white pinafore cradling a fluffy kitten, smiling at the crowd of classmates gathered round. In a quiet but firm voice, she continued:

Ill remind you of the kindness that bloomed in your heart, whatever the world threw at you.

A faded childrens drawing fluttered from the albuma little girl clutching a scruffy puppy in one hand and gripping her mothers palm in the other.

If it were up to me, Miss Marys tone was stricter now, Id give both Thomas and that puppy a great big hug! And Id frame those colourful blotches, because theres no finer gift for a mother than raising a kind-hearted child!

The teacher didnt notice how Laras face changed with every word, her worried glances at Thomass bedroom door, her white-knuckled grip on the battered sketchbook.

Miss Mary! Please, could you watch Thomas just for a few minutes? Only a little bit! Ill be right back!

With the teachers watchful eye following her, Lara grabbed her coat and hurried out.

She ran straight toward the distant tip. Her feet soaked through, she didnt careshe called, peered under filthy boxes, rummaged through black bin bags, all the while glancing anxiously back at her house. Would he forgive her?

*****

Tom, whos that burying his nose in the flowers? Is that your friendDigger?

Thats him, Miss Mary! Dyou think he looks the same?

He certainly does! And look at that white star on his paw. I still remember giving his paws a good scrub with your mum. We had quite the job, didnt we? the teacher laughed gently.

I wash his paws every day now! said Thomas proudly. Mum says, Get a friend, care for your friend. Shes even bought a special tub for it!

Your mums a good sort, the teacher smiled. Are you painting something for her again?

I am! I want to put it in a frame. Shes got those old blotches framed, you see, and she just sits there smiling at them. But who smiles at blotches, Miss Mary?

At blotches? The teacher chuckled. Maybe you do, if the blotches come from a pure heart. Tell me, hows your art school going? Are you enjoying it?

Oh, definitely! Soon Ill be able to paint a proper portrait of Mum! Shell be over the moon! For nowwait. Thomas rummaged in his backpack and handed her a folded piece of paper. This is from Mum, shes painting too.

Miss Mary unfolded the page, gently squeezed the boys shoulder, and looked down.

There, in a burst of colours, was a grinning, radiant Thomas with an arm draped over the head of a black-and-white mongrel gazing up at him with admiration.

Standing to the right, a tiny, fair-haired girl in an outmoded school uniform cradled a small kitten in her arms

And from behind a teachers desk stacked with books, Miss Mary herself looked outsmiling, wise, and radiating warmth from eyes alive with understanding and care.

In every stoke, in every vibrant line, Miss Mary felt the depth of a mothers pride.

She wiped away a tear and smiledthere, in the corner, written out with swirling flowers and green curls, there was a single word: Remember.

And she knew then: the greatest gift one can give a child is helping them keep their goodness alive. And sometimes, all we need is a gentle reminder of the kindness that lives within us.

Divorce Because of the Woman Next Door – Just explain to me, why out of all the women in the world did you choose her? From me—to her, why? Karina was losing to Masha on every front. And it would have been one thing if Valery had said something like, “She’s fun, easy-going, not as strict, not as much of a bore as you.” “How could this happen, Masha? How? You two were so happy…” mourned her mother, her sister, and all her friends when they heard about the coming divorce. “We were,” Maria would agree. “But we won’t be anymore.” “Masha, think thirty times before you leave a man like him. He earns money, loves his kids, and he doesn’t even want the divorce…” And after that, anyone who uttered those words was promptly banished by Maria—blocked for life on social media, messengers, and of course, in real life too. A colleague who used to chat with Maria as a friend now just got a nod and a routine “hello” in passing. And when this colleague tried to reignite their friendship, Maria let her have it—for the unsolicited advice and for all but forcing her to return to her cheating husband. Yes, cheating! Masha still couldn’t wrap her head around it. Everything was fine! Twenty years together, since university—they’d been through a lorry-load of salt, as the saying goes, which is how you know a marriage can last. They’d weathered poverty, unemployment, illness—both their own and the kids’… They had two kids, a son and a daughter—a perfect family, as they say. The house was always spotless, dinner always made, and Masha never had a headache… She looked after herself, never treated her husband like a walking cash machine, always found time for him, and didn’t abandon poor Valery after the kids arrived… So what more could that philanderer possibly want that he suddenly decided to stray? And with whom! If he’d been drawn to a younger woman, at least that would have made some sense. But no—either his heart, or rather, his other head, led Valery to a divorced woman with a child who lived practically next door. “Just tell me, what did you see in her?” Masha alternated between laughter and tears after the affair came to light, and Valery had to answer for his actions. “Why her, of all the women in the world? Why her instead of me?” Karina lost to Masha on every count. And Valery didn’t even offer any character traits like “she’s more fun, more free, less uptight than you…” Nope. Not even that. Was he drunk when it started? Nope, stone-cold sober. All he could do was bleat, “It just happened,” and beg, humiliated, to be allowed back into the family. Suddenly, and not as planned, Valery saw his hopes dashed: he’d thought, like a naughty cat, he could have fun on the side and then innocently waltz back home, crawl into bed with his wife, and pretend nothing ever happened. And maybe that’s exactly what would have happened—if only his new lover hadn’t gotten pregnant, and then decided to drag him off to the registry office to serve as daddy for both her new baby and the first one. She stormed around to Maria’s, scandal in tow. Maria didn’t believe it at first. How could she? After twenty years with a man you think you know inside out! But Karina knew things, as it turned out—like birthmarks, scars, and shapes you can’t just invent. Clearly, the affair was real. Cornered, Valery had no option but to confess and beg forgiveness. Unexpectedly, some friends took his side. Not even mutual friends—her colleague from work, a few girlfriends who’d always treated Valery like a nonentity, even distant relatives… All insisted Maria should forgive and stick with Valery, pretending nothing happened. Maria just couldn’t understand it. Sure, her mother-in-law pleaded for her to “save the family.” At least that made some sense—her son was sorry, and she wanted to help fix things for his sake. She even went so far as to get the kids to beg their mum to stay with their dad. Gross, manipulative—but at least there was a logic. But why did everyone else care so much about Maria’s choice? Was it pure crab bucket mentality: “We’re all sitting in a pile of it, so you’d better sit with us”? Maria didn’t know. But one thing was certain—she refused to put up with it. She was her father’s daughter, after all. He’d taught her one thing above all: if people shame you into sacrificing or forgiving just because “that’s what people do” or “God says so”—don’t believe it for a second. That’s just people trying to exploit you for their own comfort. Maria remembered her dad’s words well, and sure enough, she recognized shaming, guilt-tripping, and obligation-laden manipulation for exactly what it was. And she wasn’t having any of it. Nor were her children, it turned out: after Maria filed for divorce, her mother-in-law called, demanding the children unblock her and stay in touch. “She’s driving us mad,” explained her daughter, Ksenia, at dinner. Her son Victor was staying with his girlfriend, so it was left to Ksenia to explain: “All Grandma ever talks about is trying to get you and Dad back together. I said once—let you two sort it out—but she went on and on, so I just blocked her until she can be a normal grandma again.” “Thank you. I know you probably don’t like what’s going on, and I appreciate that you’re not giving in to her or joining her manipulations.” “Mum, I’m not stupid,” Ksenia sighed. “I know what Dad did. If you two had just argued about holidays or curtains, that’s one thing. But cheating? Normal people don’t forgive that. And Dad knew it too. So what did he expect? What does Grandma expect now?” Maria had no answer. Just a month before, she’d have said she could answer any question from her daughter. But how do you answer, when you don’t even know yourself? How can you explain why the man everyone thought was a model husband and father for twenty years would suddenly go off the rails so spectacularly? Sure, things happen—but nothing like this. Was it a midlife crisis? Was there really another demon inside him? And with that, Valery chose to unleash those demons on his “ex-family” in a most extraordinary way—five years after the divorce. Divorce Because of the Woman Next Door

The Number 13 Spanner He called that morning, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary: “Can you pop round? Need a hand with the bike, really. Don’t fancy doing it on my own.” The words “can you pop round” and “don’t fancy” sounded oddly together. Usually Dad would say “got to” and “I’ll sort it myself.” His grown-up son, grey already at the temples, caught himself looking for the catch in this invitation, like in their old conversations. But there was no catch—just a simple request, and that somehow made it more uncomfortable. He arrived just before lunch, climbed to the third floor, hesitated on the landing as the key turned in the lock. The door opened straightaway, as if Dad had been standing behind it, waiting. “Come in. Shoes off,” Dad said, stepping aside. Everything was in its place in the hallway: doormat, side table, a neat stack of newspapers. Dad looked just the same, only his shoulders seemed smaller, and when he adjusted his sleeve, his hands trembled for a moment. “Where’s the bike?” his son asked, just so he wouldn’t have to ask anything else. “On the balcony. Put it there out of the way. Thought I’d manage myself, but… ” Dad waved it off and led the way. The balcony was glazed, but cold, full of boxes and jars. The bike stood by the wall, covered with an old sheet. Dad pulled it off as if uncovering something precious, and brushed his hand gently over the frame. “It’s yours,” he said. “Remember? Got it for your birthday.” His son remembered. He remembered riding around the estate, falling, his father silently picking him up, brushing the grit from his knees, checking the chain. Back then, Dad hardly ever praised, but always looked at things as if they were alive, as if he was responsible for them. “Tyre’s flat,” the son observed. “That’s nothing. Hub’s rattling, rear brake’s gone. Tried it yesterday, made my heart skip,” Dad said with a short, uneasy grin. They carried the bike into the room that doubled as Dad’s “workshop” — not a real one, just a corner with a table by the window, a mat, lamp, and a box of tools. Pliers, screwdrivers, and spanners hung on the wall, all sorted. His son automatically noticed this, as he always did: Dad kept things orderly where he could. “Can you find a number thirteen spanner?” Dad asked. The son opened the tool box. The spanners lay in neat lines, but somehow the thirteen wasn’t there. “Here’s twelve, fourteen… no thirteen.” Dad raised his eyebrows. “How can it be missing? It’s always…” He fell quiet, as if he didn’t want to say “always.” The son rummaged through the tools, pulled out the desk drawer. Old nuts, washers, tape, a bit of sandpaper. The spanner turned up under a pack of rubber gloves. “Here it is,” the son said. Dad took the spanner, weighed it as if testing it. “So I put it there. My memory,” he grunted. “Right, let’s have the bike, then.” They set the bike on its side, son tucking a rag under the pedal. Dad crouched next to it, carefully, as if his knees might betray him. His son noticed, but pretended he didn’t. “Wheel off first,” Dad instructed. “You hold, I’ll loosen the nuts.” He gripped the spanner, twisted. The nut resisted; Dad tightened his lips. His son took the spanner and together they shifted it. “I’d manage,” Dad muttered. “I’m just trying to help—” “I know. Hold it steady.” They worked in silence, communicating with short phrases: “hold this,” “don’t pull,” “here,” “watch the washer.” The son realised he found this easier. When words are kept to the job, there’s nothing to guess at. They took off the wheel and set it aside. Dad fetched the old pump and checked the hose. It was battered and worn. “Tube’s probably fine. Just dried out,” Dad said. His son wanted to ask how he was so sure, but didn’t. Dad always sounded confident, even when he wasn’t. While Dad pumped, his son inspected the brake—pads worn down, cable rusty. “Cable needs replacing,” he said. “Cable… think I’ve got a spare.” Dad searched a cupboard under the table, brought out box after box. Each was neatly labelled. His son saw in this not just tidiness, but a need to keep time from slipping—the more things are labelled, the less likely they are to drift. “Don’t see it,” Dad snapped, closing a box with frustration. “Maybe in the cupboard?” his son offered. “There’s chaos in there,” Dad confessed, as if it were a crime. The son grinned. “You? Chaos? That’s new.” Dad gave him a sideways look, but there was gratitude in it for the joke. “Go on, have a look. I’ll get on with this.” The small cupboard was crammed with boxes. The son flicked on the light, rummaged, and finally found a coil of brake cable wrapped in newspaper on the top shelf. “Got it,” he shouted. “Knew I had,” Dad called back. He handed the cable over. Dad tested the ends. “All good. Need to find the right end caps though.” Dad rummaged again, producing some small metal sleeves. “Right, let’s do the brake,” Dad said. Son held the frame, Dad undid the bolts. His father’s fingers were dry and cracked, nails close-cut. His son remembered, as a boy, thinking those hands were invincible. Now, there was a new strength in them: patient, measured. “Why are you looking at me?” Dad asked, not looking up. “Just… wondering how you remember it all.” Dad snorted. “I remember. Just not where I put the spanners. Funny, isn’t it?” The son wanted to say “It’s not funny,” but understood Dad didn’t mean ha-ha. He meant scary. “It’s normal,” the son said quietly. “I get it too.” Dad nodded, accepting it as permission not to be perfect. Taking apart the brake, they found a spring missing. Dad stared at the empty spot, then met his son’s eyes. “Mucked about yesterday—could’ve dropped it. Did look on the floor.” “Let’s have another go then,” his son replied. They knelt, feeling round the floor, checking under the table. His son found the spring by the skirting, near a chair leg. “Here it is.” Dad took the spring, peered at it. “Thank God. Otherwise…” He didn’t finish. The son knew he’d meant, “or I’d really be losing it.” But didn’t say it. “Tea?” Dad asked suddenly, as if tea would fill up the silence. “Yes, please.” In the kitchen, Dad put on the kettle, got out two mugs. His son sat, watching old routines—familiar, but a little slower now. Dad poured tea and set a plate of digestives in front of his son. “Eat. You’re looking thin.” His son wanted to protest, but let it pass. In that phrase was all the care Dad could put into words. “How’s work?” Dad asked. “Alright. Project finished, starting a new one.” “Good. As long as they pay you on time.” The son smiled. “Always about the money, Dad.” “What else should I talk about—feelings?” Dad stared at him, frank. “Feelings?” His son felt something tighten inside. He never thought he’d hear Dad use the word. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. Dad was quiet, then cradled his mug in both hands. “I sometimes think you just come here out of obligation. Ticking a box,” he said. The son put his mug down. The tea was hot; it scalded his fingers but he didn’t move. “And do you think it’s easy for me, coming here?” he asked. “It’s like being a kid again. You always know better.” Dad half-laughed, not unkindly. “I do think I know better. Old habit.” “And also,” the son breathed, “you never really asked how I am. Not for real.” Dad looked into his mug, as though it held the answer. “I was afraid to ask. If you ask, you have to listen. And I…” He met his son’s eyes. “I don’t always know how.” His son felt unburdened. Dad didn’t say sorry or explain himself. Just admitted not knowing. It was truer than any big speech. “I don’t know either.” Dad nodded. “Guess we’ll learn, eh. With the bike, for starters.” There was a wry smile, as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d said it. They finished tea and went back. The bicycle was still there, wheel off, the new cable on the table. Dad dived back in. “Right. You thread the cable, I’ll do the pads.” His son tried, less deft than his father, annoyed with himself. Dad noticed. “No rush. It’s not about strength, it’s about patience.” His son looked at him. “You mean just with the bike?” “With everything,” Dad replied, and turned away, as if he’d said too much. They lined up the pads, tightened the bolts. Dad tested the brake lever a few times. “Much better.” His son pumped up the tyre, checked for leaks. Tube held. They put the wheel back and tightened the nuts. Dad asked for the number thirteen spanner, and his son handed it over wordlessly. The spanner fitted Dad’s hand like it belonged there. “That’s it,” Dad declared. “Let’s give it a go.” They wheeled the bike outside. Dad held the handlebars, son beside him. The estate was empty, just a neighbour with her shopping bag nodding at them. “Go on, have a ride,” Dad said. “Me?” “Well, I’m no acrobat any more.” He climbed on. The saddle was low, knees high—like childhood. He circled the patch of grass, braked. The bike stopped obediently. “It works,” he said, dismounting. Dad took the bike, tried a cautious lap, then stopped, foot on the ground. “Not bad. Time well spent.” His son saw Dad wasn’t talking about the bike. He was glad he’d called. “Take the toolkit home with you,” Dad said suddenly, nodding at the tools. “I’ve got plenty. You’ll need them more. You’re always doing things yourself.” His son thought to argue, but realised this was Dad’s way. Not “I love you”—but “take these, make life easier.” “Alright, I will. But keep the number thirteen spanner. That one’s yours.” Dad smiled. “I’ll put it back where it belongs now.” Back inside, his son put on his coat in the hallway. Dad stood nearby, unhurried. “Will you pop round next week?” Dad asked, as if casually. “The cupboard door in the box room sticks. Could use some oil—but my hands aren’t what they were.” He said it simply, no excuses. His son heard an invitation, not a complaint. “I’ll come. Call first, though, so I don’t barge in.” Dad nodded and, as the door closed, added quietly, “Thanks for coming.” His son walked down the stairs, carrying a few of Dad’s spanners and screwdrivers in an old rag. They felt heavy, but not burdensome. Outside, he looked up at the window on the third floor. The curtain twitched—maybe Dad was watching. He didn’t wave. He just went to the car, knowing now he could come round not just for a “favour,” but for what they’d both finally learned was truly important.