“What if Mum and Dad really do split up?” The awful thought twisted Ollie’s stomach, and he suddenly felt like crying.
The three friends were walking home from school. The spring sun glared straight into their eyes. They nudged each other, joking around and laughing, until they stopped outside Jake’s house.
“Coming for a bike ride with us later? Me and Ben had an absolute blast tearing through the park yesterday.”
Ollie frowned. He’d been begging his dad to bring his bike back from the garage for ages, but there was never any time—either his dad came home too late from work, when it was already dark, or he promised to do it at the weekend and then forgot, always swamped with other things.
“You coming or not?” Jake repeated, giving Ollie a playful shove.
“Dunno. Bike’s still in the garage. If Dad gets back early enough…”
“Can’t you just grab it yourself? Fine, we’ll be at the park by seven. Meet us there.” Jake held out his palm, and they all slapped it in turn.
A few houses down, Ollie said goodbye to Ben. *Maybe I should just look for the garage key myself. Dad only parks the car in there in winter—he probably doesn’t even carry it with him.* He hurried home, the furthest of all his friends.
Inside, Ollie changed out of his uniform and immediately started searching for the key. But the junk drawer where his parents usually kept odds and ends didn’t have it. He hunted around a bit longer before giving up and deciding to tackle his homework. When Mum got back, he’d ask her. But if he didn’t finish his schoolwork, she’d never hand the key over.
He was done in an hour and a half—even he was surprised. Normally it took twice that long. The front door clicked open. *”Mum!”* Ollie sprinted to greet her.
“Hi, love,” she sighed, carrying a shopping bag straight to the kitchen. Ollie followed, watching as she unpacked groceries into the fridge.
“Why didn’t you eat the pasta and meatballs? Just had a sandwich and tea again? Put this away,” she said, handing him a packet of rice.
“Mum, where’s the garage key?”
“What d’you need it for?”
“My bike.”
“Did you finish your homework?” She shut the fridge and eyed him.
“Yeah, you can check if you want,” he said quickly.
“The key…” She scanned the kitchen, distracted. “Can’t remember. Wait for your dad—he’ll know where it is.”
“When’s *he* getting back? Midnight?” Ollie snapped. “Everyone else has been riding for ages. Why’d you even put it in the garage? Should’ve left it on the balcony. And when Dad *does* come home, you’ll just start arguing. You can’t even go a day without shouting at each other. I’m *sick* of it.” His mood plummeted. He turned and stomped off, slamming his bedroom door behind him.
Lately, his dad was always working late. His parents fought constantly, screaming over the smallest things. Ollie had heard the word *divorce* more times than he could bear.
He couldn’t imagine them splitting up. Sure, his dad barely asked about his life anymore—the three of them hadn’t done anything together in ages. Once, his dad *had* come home on time. Over dinner, he’d asked how school was going. Ollie started talking, but soon stopped when he noticed his dad’s distant expression—he wasn’t even listening, lost in his own thoughts.
Then Mum had launched in—how his dad didn’t care, how Ollie needed his attention now more than ever, what with it being such a tricky age… Ollie had shut himself in his room, trying not to listen. But how could he *not* hear when they were screaming at each other?
All his mates had proper families. Jake and his dad went fishing all the time, even caught the odd football match. Ben was barely ever outside—always off on family trips in their car. Ollie sighed.
He sat on his bed, legs crossed, holding an open book but not reading a word. His mum crept in, perching on the edge of the mattress, reaching to ruffle his hair. Ollie jerked his head away.
“I found the garage key. If you’ve done your homework…” she began hesitantly.
“I *have*, I *told* you,” he cut in.
“Alright. Go get changed, then. We’ll fetch your bike together.”
Ollie snapped the book shut, tossed it aside, yanked on a hoodie, and jumped up.
“Ready!” he said brightly.
“Just promise me you won’t ride on the road. Stay in the park or stick to the pavements,” she said, standing.
The garage was only a five-minute walk away. Ollie struggled with the rusted lock, wrenching the metal door open with a screech.
“How many times have I told him to oil these hinges?” Mum muttered, stepping inside. She flicked the switch, and a bare bulb flickered on under the low ceiling. The cramped space was piled with boxes, tools, and random junk. In one corner stood an old kitchen table and two wobbly stools—the garage was less for the car and more for stuff they couldn’t bring themselves to throw away.
The metal had baked in the sun all day, filling the space with trapped heat. It smelled like oil and petrol. Ollie spotted his bike immediately, hanging high on the wall, just out of reach.
“You’ll need a stool,” Mum said.
Ollie grabbed one, wobbling as he climbed up.
“Careful—I’ll steady you.” She gripped his legs.
“Mum, that’s not helping. Just hold the stool so it doesn’t tip.” The words came out clipped, almost like his *dad*—Ollie startled himself.
He tried lifting the bike, but the hooks held tight—too heavy.
“Let me try,” Mum offered.
“I’ve got it.” Ollie rose onto his toes, shoving the bike upward. The stool lurched.
*”Mum—hold it!”* The bike nearly slipped, but she caught it just in time.
Ollie hopped down, dusting his hands off, thrilled he’d actually done it—he’d be riding with his friends soon.
“Tyres are flat. Needs pumping up,” Mum said. “See if the pump’s here.”
Ollie rummaged through the mess of tools. No luck.
“Forget it, I’ll ride like this or borrow Jake’s,” he said.
Then Mum’s phone rang.
“It’s Dad,” she said, answering.
“We’re at the garage… Ollie wanted his bike. You’re home *early*? What’s the occasion?” Her voice dripped sarcasm. She listened, lips pressed tight.
“Couldn’t wait, could you? You’ve been promising him this for weeks… Oh, *suddenly* it’s urgent? Don’t bother coming. Just tell me where the pump is.” A long silence. Then she hung up, glowering.
“He doesn’t *remember* where it is. Surprised he hasn’t forgotten *us*,” she snapped. “He’s on his way. Feel like waiting?” She sank onto the rickety stool.
“You *did* your homework, right? Term’s almost over—if you fail now, there’s no time to fix it.”
They were still talking when the garage door flew open. His dad stood in the doorway. Ollie rushed over.
“I got the bike down *myself*,” he bragged. “Dad, the tyres need air, but we couldn’t find the pump—”
Then he glanced at Mum and stopped. She wasn’t looking at Dad, just staring at the floor. His dad avoided her, too. They were acting like strangers. Ollie’s excitement drained away, replaced by a cold, sick feeling, even though the garage was stifling.
His dad hunted for the pump, and Ollie watched him. *What if they* do *split up?* The thought clenched his stomach, and tears prickled.
He’d once seen a movie where kids locked their divorcing parents in a basement to force them to make up. It *worked*—after days trapped together, they reconciled. Ollie had thought about that film a lot. And now—this was his chance. He had to move fast.
“Where’re you going?” Mum called as he headed for the door.
“Gonna check if Mr. Thompson’s home—maybe he’s got a pump.” Ollie stepped outside.
A padlock dangled from the door hinge. He carefully unhooked it, slipped behind the door, yanked it shut, and snapped the lock in place. Pressing his back against the metal, he exhaled.
He didn’t want to think about what they’d do when they got out. But they couldn’t without him. Ollie checked the street—no one around. He squeezed the key in his fist.
“Ollie, this isn’t funny! Open the door *Ollie sat on the curb outside, clutching the key tight, and for the first time in weeks, he let himself hope.
