The thought gnawed at Oliver’s stomach like a rat—what if his parents really did divorce? The dread twisted inside him, threatening to spill out in tears.
Three friends trudged home from school that afternoon, the spring sun glaring in their eyes. Oliver’s mates, Jack and Harry, nudged each other, laughing and shoving playfully. They paused outside Jack’s house, where the pavement was warm from the day’s heat.
“Coming cycling later?” Jack asked, giving Oliver a shove. “Harry and I had a proper laugh racing round the park yesterday.”
Oliver scowled. He’d been begging his dad to fetch his bike from the garden shed for weeks, but there was always an excuse—late shifts at work, forgotten promises, weekends lost to errands.
“You in?” Jack repeated, nudging him again.
“Dunno. Bike’s still in the shed. If Dad gets home early…”
“Why not just grab it yourself? Suit yourself, then—we’ll be at the park by seven.” Jack held up a hand, and the boys slapped it in turn before Harry peeled off at the next corner.
Oliver lingered a moment, chewing his lip. Maybe he could find the shed key? Dad only used it in winter. He probably didn’t even carry it anymore. Heart racing, Oliver hurried the rest of the way home—he lived the farthest of the three.
Inside, he tossed his school bag aside and tore through the junk drawer in the kitchen. No key. He checked the hall table, his parents’ bedside drawers—nothing. Defeated, he slumped at his desk and forced himself to start his homework. If he didn’t finish, Mum wouldn’t let him out.
For once, it took less than two hours. Just as he closed his books, the front door clicked open. “Mum!” he called, darting into the hall.
She barely glanced up, lugging grocery bags into the kitchen. He followed, watching her unpack.
“Didn’t touch the spaghetti and meatballs? Just had a sandwich again?” She handed him a box of cereal to put away.
“Mum, where’s the shed key?”
Her brow furrowed. “Why?”
“Need my bike.”
“Homework done?” She shut the fridge and fixed him with a look.
“Done—check if you want.”
She scanned the kitchen absently. “No idea. Wait for your dad—he’ll know.”
“When? Midnight?” Oliver snapped. “Jack and Harry’ve been riding for ages. Why’d we even put it in the shed? Could’ve left it on the patio. But no—you and Dad won’t care when he gets home. Too busy screaming at each other. I’m sick of it.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. He stormed off, slamming his bedroom door behind him.
Lately, Dad was always working late. The shouting had become a nightly ritual. The word *divorce* hung in the air like smoke.
Oliver couldn’t fathom it—his parents splitting up? Sure, Dad barely asked about school anymore. The last time he’d been home for dinner on time, he’d half-listened while Oliver talked about football, his eyes glazed over. Mum had snapped—accused Dad of not caring, of leaving Oliver to fend for himself. Oliver had fled to his room, hands clamped over his ears.
Other kids had normal families. Jack and his dad went fishing every weekend. Harry’s parents took him on day trips. Oliver sighed, flopping onto his bed with a book he didn’t read.
Mum appeared in the doorway, perching on the edge of the mattress. She reached to ruffle his hair—he jerked away.
“Found the shed key,” she said quietly. “If you’ve done your work…”
“I *said* I did.”
“Alright. Get your jacket.”
Oliver shot up, yanking on his hoodie. “Ready!”
“Stay off the roads—park or pavements only,” she warned as they stepped outside.
The shed stood five minutes away, its padlock rusted stiff. Oliver wrenched it open, the metal door screeching.
“Your dad never oils these hinges,” Mum muttered, flicking the light on. The cramped space smelled of petrol and damp. Tools and junk cluttered the shelves. In the far corner, Oliver’s bike hung high on the wall.
“Grab a stool,” Mum said.
He climbed up, wobbling dangerously.
“Careful!” She gripped his legs.
“Hold the stool, not me,” Oliver muttered, surprised at how much he sounded like Dad. He heaved at the bike—too heavy.
“Let me—”
“I’ve got it!” He shoved harder. The stool tilted.
“Mum, *steady*!” The bike lurched—she caught it just in time.
Oliver jumped down, grinning. Tonight, he’d finally ride with his friends.
“Tyres are flat,” Mum said. “We need the pump.”
He rummaged but found nothing.
“Doesn’t matter—I’ll borrow Jack’s.”
Just then, her phone rang.
“It’s your dad.” She answered, voice tight. “We’re at the shed… Oliver’s bike. You’re home *early*?” Her tone dripped sarcasm. A pause. “Well, *you* promised to get it weeks ago… No, don’t come. Just tell me where the pump is.” She hung up, scowling. “He doesn’t remember. Shocker.”
The shed door flew open. Dad stood there, tie loosened.
“I got the bike down myself!” Oliver babbled. “But we can’t find the pump—”
He stopped. Mum was staring at the floor. Dad avoided her eyes. The joy drained from Oliver’s chest, replaced by icy dread.
*What if they really do split up?* The thought choked him.
He remembered a film he’d seen—kids locking their divorcing parents in a basement until they made up. A wild idea took root.
“I’ll ask Mr. Thompson next door for his pump,” Oliver announced, sidling toward the door.
Outside, he unhooked the padlock. In one swift move, he slammed the door shut and snapped the lock back into place.
“Oliver! Open this *now*!” Mum’s fists pounded the metal.
“Not till you stop fighting!” he yelled, voice cracking. “I *hate* it! Just *talk*!”
Silence. Then muffled voices—angry at first, then quieter. Oliver paced, heart hammering.
What if Dad *had* met someone else? What if Mum never smiled again? He thought of how they used to laugh, wrestling on the sofa like kids. When had that stopped?
An hour later, he crept back. The shouting had died.
“Open the door,” Dad called, calm now.
Oliver fumbled with the lock. Inside, Mum and Dad sat at the rickety table, her head on his shoulder. They didn’t yell. Didn’t even scold him.
“Hungry?” Dad said, stretching. “I pumped the tyres. Let’s go home.”
Oliver gaped. Had it *worked*?
“We’ll talk about this later,” Mum added—but she was *smiling*.
They walked back together, Dad’s arm around her. Oliver rolled his bike beside them, barely daring to breathe.
“Nice evening,” Dad mused. “What about Whitsun at Uncle Pete’s? Been ages since we went anywhere.”
Mum nodded. “Sounds lovely.”
Oliver’s chest swelled. No eye-roll. No *”You actually mean it this time?”*
At home, Mum reheated Dad’s dinner while Oliver sipped tea. The flat felt peaceful—no shouting, no tension.
Dad caught his eye. “Shed key’s going somewhere safer. Just in case you get any more bright ideas.” He pocketed it with a smirk.
Oliver grinned. For the first time in months, hope flickered inside him—warm and bright, like Christmas morning.
