“Go on ahead, I’ll catch up later.”
“Where are you?”
“At the allotment. Mum asked me to drop her off.”
At the allotment. On the very day your son starts school for the first time…
Emma stood at the kitchen sink, gripping a sponge so tightly her fingers trembled. Not from the cold water, but from the simmering rage bubbling under her skin. On the hob, porridge hissed and burned, the telly droned in the bedroom, and her mind raced with questions: *The allotment? Now? Why?*
…Her husband had left early. No goodbye. Just a door slam, and the house sank back into silence. She’d thought, maybe he’d nipped out to the car or run an errand. Their son, Oliver, had woken up, rubbed his eyes, and shuffled off to the bathroom in his pyjamas.
Everything was normal. Except for one thing: Dad hadn’t come back.
“James, have you completely lost the plot?!” she asked when she finally got through to him.
“Mum needed a quick favour,” he defended. “You go on, I’ll meet you there.”
“Oh, brilliant. Urgent, was it? Eight in the morning. First day of term.” Emma’s voice was colder than the iceberg that scuppered the Titanic.
“Look, I know—but she asked. Won’t take long.”
Emma said nothing. If she opened her mouth now, the dam would crack, and a morning meltdown wasn’t what a brand-new Year One pupil should see. Instead, she ended the call.
Let that be on their conscience.
“Mum, where’s Dad?” Oliver stood there in his crisp white shirt, fumbling with the buttons. Determined but anxious, not complaining.
“Granny had an emergency at the allotment. Dad’s taking her,” Emma said flatly, no sarcasm, no sugar-coating.
“Will he come after?” hope lacing his words.
“Dunno, sweetheart. Probably not.”
“Did he know today was my special day?”
They’d talked about it all week. But Oliver couldn’t fathom his dad choosing *this* over him.
“Yeah. He knew,” Emma murmured.
The boy looked down, silent. Slumped at the table and buried himself in his tablet. The bouquet for his teacher sat in a vase by the door. His new backpack—covered in dinosaurs—ready to go. Everything set for the big day.
Except the family.
At assembly, Oliver held it together. No smiles, no tears, just a white-knuckled grip on Emma’s hand as kids buzzed around them, grandparents cooing, dads filming. Everyone else was having the time of their lives.
Emma snapped photos, forced cheer. A lump sat heavy in her throat, but she smiled enough for two. Maybe even three. Still not enough.
When a Year Six boy hoisted a tiny girl with ringlets onto his shoulders to ring the bell, Emma’s phone buzzed. First text from her mother-in-law: *”Take loads of pics! Send them. I want to see.”* Followed fifteen minutes later: *”Tell Ollie to wave at me! I’m there in spirit!”*
*In spirit?* Emma clenched her jaw. How convenient—no effort required.
She didn’t reply. Not because she feared a row. She just had nothing to say to that woman.
Afterwards, they hit a café—ice cream and milkshakes—then ambled through the park. The plan had been a trip to the funfair. But Dad was at the allotment. With the marrows, not his son. Plans adjusted.
“Mum, can I ignore Granny if she calls?” Oliver asked as his rucksack vibrated.
“’Course,” Emma nodded. “I would.”
No explanation needed. He just hugged her tight, like he could squeeze all the hurt out through his arms.
Something inside her hardened. So when James rang later, neither of them answered. The conversation happened over text.
*”You’re being childish. Pick up. Mum’s upset.”*
*”So’s your son.”*
*”Ollie’s upset?”*
*”Yep. Because today mattered. And you picked vegetables. Keep digging.”*
James slunk in around nine. Tiptoed like he might wake someone—or worse, tip the already-fraught atmosphere. Oliver was asleep. Emma sat in the lounge with a book, unread, just a shield against the indifference gnawing at her.
“Maybe tomorrow we do something? All three of us,” James ventured, perching beside her. “Cinema? Café? Feels like we’re all ships passing lately.”
Emma arched a brow. No eager agreement, just a tired sigh.
“You think parenting’s like work deadlines? Just reschedule? Ollie needed you *today*.”
“Wasn’t deliberate,” James rubbed his forehead. “Mum sprang it on me. Thought it’d be quick.”
“Ah. Shame ‘quick’ doesn’t fix Ollie’s hurt. He waited. Till everyone left.”
“Don’t make it sound so—”
“What, *true*?” Emma laughed—dry, humorless. James saw this differently. No one died. Just a missed assembly. She was overreacting.
He didn’t get it. To her, this was betrayal. Or he didn’t *want* to get it.
“What’s really got your back up?”
“Plenty. But mostly? You don’t see how much you hurt him. Like it’ll just… fix itself.”
Once, it’d been different. She remembered James during her pregnancy: *”I want to be in his life, not just around. Be a proper dad.”*
He’d taught Oliver to ride a bike, fold paper planes, turn acorns into toy soldiers. They’d raced Hot Wheels, Ollie’s eyes alight, James grinning like he’d found his purpose.
Even Granny had baked then—more for herself than Ollie, but still. She’d gushed over him, though it always felt… performative. *”Look at my handsome grandson! Takes after me!”*
Family dos were loud, lavish. Fancy cakes, Instagram-worthy salads. But once guests left? The façade crumbled. Just sighs, eye-rolls, muttered *”Could’ve come earlier to help.”*
Oliver noticed. He was little, not stupid. He remembered Granny promising nursery pickups—then forgetting. Dad skipping his Nativity play because *”Granny needed help.”*
He remembered. And stopped asking.
Now he brought Emma his bike with a flat tyre, though she couldn’t fix it. But she fixed everything else.
Except one thing: he didn’t turn to Dad anymore.
“You want him to forgive you—love you and your mum—just like that?” Emma levelled at James. “He’s seven. Not clueless. I won’t make him smile when you’ve hurt him.”
James stilled. Exhaustion in his eyes, irritation beneath. Said nothing, just scowled at his phone, thumbs jabbing the screen. Maybe texting someone. Maybe pretending to.
Emma didn’t care. She picked up her book—her shield.
A week later, another morning, another buzz. Mother-in-law: *”Hi love. It’s my birthday today. Bring Ollie? I’d love to see him. Really would.”*
Emma stared. Words dripping with faux sweetness… and entitlement. Like an order, not a request. Debated not telling Oliver, but went upstairs.
He was at his desk, colouring carefully, staying inside the lines. Seemed calm, but shoulders tense. Maybe he knew the date.
“Ollie, Granny’s birthday today,” Emma said softly. “She’s asking if you want to go.”
He didn’t look up. Finished a tree branch first.
“Mum… can I not?”
Predictable. Emma searched his face—was this a strop, or genuine?
“It’s… not nice,” he murmured. “She didn’t even say sorry. And… she forgets me.”
Finally, he met her gaze. Certainty. Hurt. Emma nodded.
“Alright. Won’t make you.”
“You going?” he asked.
“Nope. Not nice for me either. We’ll stay home.”
She remembered past birthdays—James fretful over gifts, Ollie crafting cards while she baked. Granny’s *”Oh, you shouldn’t have!”* (though her smile said otherwise).
Except the gifts got critiqued. The cake got left out. Once, Ollie found his card in the bin.
Emma used to think relationships were like broken china—glue them back, endure. Keep inviting, explaining, hoping. She’d tried. Nativity plays, birthdays, casual visits. Then… marrows mattered more.
Later, as Oliver brushed his teeth, Emma checked her phone. James: *”Mum’s upset. Says she won’t ask again. Says you ruined her day.”*
Emma almost ignored it. Then dialled her mother-in-law.
“Hello?”
“It’s Emma. Your son said you’re hurt. But truth?She tucked Oliver in that night, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “Sometimes the people who love you least are the ones who share your name,” before switching off the light and leaving the past where it belonged—in the dark.
