**Until Next Summer**
The early summer morning stretched long outside my windowgreen leaves pressed against the glass, as if deliberately shielding the room from excess light. Every window in the flat was wide open; in the quiet, birdsong mingled with the occasional voices of children playing in the street. This was a home where everything had long settled into its place, shared by a forty-five-year-old woman named Eleanor and her seventeen-year-old son, James. This June felt differentless a season of freshness and more one of tension that lingered even with the breeze drifting through.
Eleanor would always remember the morning James received his A-Level results. He sat at the kitchen table, hunched over his phone, shoulders tight. Silent. She hovered by the stove, searching for words.
“Mum, I didnt make it,” he finally said. His voice was steady, but exhaustion threaded through it. That exhaustion had become familiarto both of them. Over the past year, James had barely left the house except for school, revising on his own or attending free prep sessions. She tried not to pushbringing him tea with honey, sometimes sitting beside him in quiet company. Now it was all starting again.
For Eleanor, the news was like a bucket of cold water. She knew a retake was possible only through his school, requiring yet more paperwork. Private tutors were out of the questionshe couldnt afford them. Jamess father had long since moved out and played no part in his life. That evening, they ate dinner in silence, each lost in thought. She ran through options in her headwhere to find affordable tutors, how to convince James to try again, whether she had the strength to keep supporting them both.
In the days that followed, James moved through life like an automaton. Stacks of notebooks sat by his laptop as he pored over the same maths and English past papers hed tackled in spring. Sometimes he stared out the window so long it seemed he might vanish. Answers to questions were clipped. She could see the pain in returning to material that had already failed him. But there was no choiceno university would take him without those grades.
The next evening, they sat down to make a plan. Eleanor opened her laptop.
“Maybe we could try a different tutor?” she suggested carefully.
“I can do it alone,” he muttered.
She sighed. She knew shame kept him from asking for help. But going it alone had led them here. She wanted to pull him into a hug but held back, steering the conversation to practicalities insteadhow much time he could commit, what had tripped him up last time. Slowly, the talk softened. Both understood: there was no going back.
Days passed in a new routine. Breakfast togetherporridge, tea with lemon or honey, sometimes early berries from the market. Maths tuition followed, either online or at the tutors home. Afternoons were for practice papers; evenings for reviewing mistakes or calling tutors for other subjects.
Fatigue grew in both of them. By the second week, tension seeped into small thingssomeone forgot to buy bread or turn off the iron; irritation flared over nothing. One night at dinner, James slammed his fork onto his plate.
“Why do you keep checking up on me? Im not a kid!”
She tried explainingshe just wanted to help organise his time. He clenched his jaw and looked away.
By mid-summer, it was clear their approach wasnt working. Some tutors demanded rote memorisation; others set impossible problems without guidance. Sometimes James came home hollow-eyed. Shed rage at herselfhad she pushed too hard? The flat stayed stifling, even with the windows open.
Twice, she broached the idea of breaks or walksjust to step away. But talks spiralled into argumentshe saw outings as wasted time; shed list gaps in his knowledge and the weeks study plan.
Then came the breaking point. A particularly brutal mock exam left James retreating to his room, door shut. Later, Eleanor knocked softly.
“Can we talk?”
“What?”
“Just talk.”
A long silence. Then:
“Im scared of failing again.”
She sat on the edge of his bed.
“So am I. But I see how hard youre working.”
He met her eyes.
“What if its not enough?”
“Then well figure it out. Together.”
They talked for an hourabout fear of falling behind, exhaustion, the helplessness against the exam systems demands. They agreed: chasing perfection was pointless. A realistic plan was what they needed.
That night, they revised his schedulefewer hours, room for walks, agreed to voice frustrations before they festered.
James left his window open more often now; evening air eased the days heaviness. A fragile calm settled over the flat. He pinned a new timetable to his wall, marking rest days in bold.
At first, old habits tuggedEleanors hand would twitch toward his study logs. But shed stop herself, remembering their talk. Evenings now included short walks to the shops or around the block, chatting about nothing. James still tired easily, but the anger ebbed. He began asking for helpnot out of fear, but knowing shed listen without judgment.
Progress came quietly. One day, his maths tutor, Mrs. Hartley, messaged: *James solved two advanced problems alone today. Hes learning from mistakes.* Eleanor read it repeatedly, smiling as if it were far grander news. At dinner, she offered quiet praise. He shrugged, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Next, he scored well on an English mock essayand actually showed her.
“Think Im getting the hang of structuring arguments,” he murmured. Eleanor squeezed his shoulder.
The flat warmed graduallynot in temperature, but tone. Berries from the market appeared by the teapot; dinners became less about revision lists and more about school gossip or weekend plans. Mistakes were met with calm analysis, even jokes. Once, James scribbled a sarcastic comment about an exam questions absurd wordingEleanors laughter startled them both.
Conversations stretched beyond examsfilms, music, vague September plans. They were relearning trust in each other.
By August, Eleanor no longer checked his schedule covertly. James stopped snapping at household requests. The pressure had lifted with their chase for the unattainable.
One night over tea, he said, “If I get in next year” then stopped.
Eleanor smiled. “If not, well keep looking. Together.”
He looked at her squarely. “Thanks. For sticking with me.”
She waved him off. “We stuck together.”
They knew uncertainty lay aheadbut the fear of facing it alone was gone.
Late August days dawned crisp; yellow leaves edged the trees outside. James stacked textbooks for another session; Eleanor filled the kettlemovements lighter now. Theyd filed his retake forms early, avoiding last-minute panic.
Days now held not just study plans but walks or grocery trips together. They still bickeredfatigue and monotony still wore thinbut theyd learned to pause, to name frustrations before they festered.
By September, one thing was clear: whatever next summers results held, theyd already changed. Theyd become a team where once theyd struggled alone, celebrating small wins instead of waiting for validation from grades.
The future remained undefinedbut it was brighter for knowing no one walked into it alone.
