The air outside was thick with the scent of early summerlong days, green leaves pressing against the windowpane as if shielding the room from too much light. The flats windows were wide open, letting in the quiet hum of birdsong and the occasional laughter of children from the street below. Inside, every object had long settled into its place. Here lived forty-five-year-old Eleanor and her seventeen-year-old son, Oliver. This June felt different, heavy not with freshness but with a tension that clung even when the breeze swept through.
The morning the A-Level results arrived, Eleanor would remember it for years. Oliver sat at the kitchen table, hunched over his phone, shoulders tight. He said nothing, and she stood by the stove, words sticking in her throat. “Mum, it didnt work out,” he finally said, voice flat but tired. Tiredness had become familiar this past yearfor both of them. After school, Oliver barely went out, studying on his own, attending free revision sessions at the sixth form. She tried not to push: brought him peppermint tea, sometimes just sat beside him in silence. Now it was starting all over again.
For Eleanor, the news was like ice water. A resit was possible only through the school, more paperwork, more hurdles. Private tutors were out of reach financially. Olivers father had long since moved on, offering no support. That evening, they ate in silence, each lost in their thoughts. She ran through optionswhere to find affordable tutors, how to convince Oliver to try again, whether she had the strength to carry them both.
Oliver moved through those days like a ghost. His room held stacks of notebooks beside his laptop. He flipped through maths and English past papersthe same questions hed tackled months ago. Sometimes he stared out the window so long it seemed he might dissolve into the glass. He answered questions in monosyllables. She saw the pain in his eyes, returning to material that had already defeated him. But there was no choice. No A-Levels meant no university. So he had to start again.
The next evening, they sat down to make a plan. Eleanor opened her laptop. “Maybe we could try someone new?” she ventured.
“Ill manage on my own,” Oliver muttered.
She sighed. Knew he was ashamed to ask for help. But hed tried alone beforeand here they were. She wanted to pull him into a hug but 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. Both knew there was no going back.
Days later, Eleanor was calling contacts, scouring forums for tutors. In a school group chat, she found a womanMargaret Hayes, who specialised in maths. They arranged a trial session. Oliver listened half-heartedly, still guarded. But when his mother handed him a list of potential tutors for English and sociology, he grudgingly agreed to look through the profiles with her.
The first weeks of summer slipped into a new rhythm. Breakfast together: porridge, tea with lemon or mint, sometimes early berries from the market. Then maths tutoringonline or in-person, depending on Margarets schedule. Afternoons were for past papers, evenings for dissecting mistakes or calls to other tutors.
Fatigue grew. By the second week, tension pricked at small thingsforgotten bread left off the shopping list, the iron left on, petty irritations. One evening, Oliver slammed his fork down.
“Why do you have to monitor everything? Im not a child!”
She tried to explainshe just wanted to help structure his day. He only stared out the window.
By midsummer, it was clear their old approach wasnt working. Tutors variedsome demanded rote memorisation, others set impossible tasks without guidance. Sometimes Oliver came home hollow-eyed. Shed rage at herself: had she pushed too hard? The flat stayed stuffy even with windows open, air thick with unspoken frustration.
Twice, she suggested walks or outings, just to breathe. But talks always veered into argumentshim dismissing it as wasted time, her listing knowledge gaps and study plans.
Then one evening, the dam broke. Olivers maths mock had gone poorly. He locked himself in his room. Later, a quiet knock.
“Can I come in?”
“What?”
“Lets talk.”
A long silence. Then:
“Im scared Ill fail again.”
She perched 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 an hourfears of falling behind, exhaustion, the helplessness against an exam system that felt like a treadmill. They admitted it: chasing perfection was pointless. They needed a plan that fit reality.
That night, they redrew the schedulefewer hours, time for walks, promises to voice frustrations before they fester.
Olivers window stayed open more often now, evening coolness seeping in. After that talk, the flat held a fragile calm. He pinned a new timetable to his wall, marking rest days in highlighter so they wouldnt forget.
At first, the new rhythm felt unnatural. Eleanors hand still twitched to check if hed done his mocks. But shed stop, remembering their conversation. Evenings now included short walksto the shops or just around the block, chatting about nothing. Oliver still came home drained, but the anger ebbed. He asked for help more, not from fear but knowing shed listen without judgement.
Progress came quietly. One day, Margaret messaged: “Oliver solved two extended questions today! Hes learning from mistakes.” Eleanor read it twice, smiling as if it were grander news. At dinner, she praised him lightlyno fanfare. He shrugged, but his mouth twitched.
Next, an English mockhis highest score yet. He showed her himself, a rare gesture. “Think Im getting the hang of structuring arguments,” he mumbled. She nodded, squeezing his shoulder.
The flat warmed by degrees. Berries appeared by the teapot; sometimes theyd bring tomatoes from the market stall. Dinners were less about revision lists, more about school gossip or weekend plans. Mistakes were met with humour now. Once, Oliver scribbled a joke about exam wording in his marginsEleanor laughed so hard he joined in.
Conversations stretched beyond exams: films, his playlists, vague September plansno uni names yet, but no panic either. They were relearning trust.
Days shortened; the sun gentled. Oliver sometimes met classmates at the parkEleanor let him go without worry.
By August, she realised she wasnt sneaking glances at his schedule. He stopped snapping at questions. The chase for perfection had eased.
One night over tea, he said, “If I get in…” then trailed off.
She smiled. “If not, we keep looking. Together.”
He looked at her. “Thanks. For sticking with me.”
She waved it off. “We stuck together.”
They knew uncertainty still loomedbut the fear of facing it alone was gone.
Late August mornings carried a chill; yellow leaves speckled the trees. Oliver gathered books for another session; Eleanor filled the kettle. Familiar motions, quieter now.
Theyd booked his resit early, avoiding last-minute chaosone less weight.
Days held more than study plans now: evening strolls, grocery runs, petty squabbles quickly smoothed by honesty.
By September, one thing was clear: whatever next summer brought, theyd already changed. Theyd become a team where once theyd struggled alone. Learned to share small victories instead of waiting for exam boards to tell them theyd done enough.
The future was still unknownbut it held more light, simply because no one would walk into it alone.
