“What if Mum and Dad really do get divorced?” The dreadful thought twisted Oliver’s stomach into knots, and he felt the prick of tears behind his eyes.
The three friends ambled home from school, the spring sun glaring into their faces. They nudged and teased each other, laughing as they went. Outside Ethan’s house, they paused.
“Coming out on bikes tonight? Me and Dan had a right laugh tearing through the park yesterday.”
Oliver frowned. He’d been begging his dad for weeks to fetch his bike from the garage, but there was never time—late shifts, forgotten promises, or some excuse about the weekend being too busy.
“Well? Are you?” Ethan prodded Oliver’s shoulder.
“Dunno. Bike’s in the garage. If Dad gets back early…”
“Can’t you just grab it yourself? Fine, we’ll be at the park by seven—don’t be late.” Ethan held up his palm, and they all slapped it in turn before parting ways.
By the next block, Oliver waved Dan off, his mind racing. Maybe he could hunt down the garage key. Dad only parked the car there in winter—surely he didn’t carry the key around. The thought spurred him home faster, his house the furthest of the three.
At home, Oliver changed out of his uniform and tore through the junk drawer where spare keys lived. Nothing. He gave up after a fruitless search and slumped at his desk. Homework first—if Mum came back and he hadn’t done it, there’d be no hope of getting that key.
Strange—he finished in an hour and a half. Normally it took twice as long. The front door clicked. “Mum!” Oliver sprang up, nearly colliding with her in the hall.
“Hello,” she sighed, hauling groceries into the kitchen. He trailed behind, watching her unpack.
“Why didn’t you eat the pasta? Just sandwiches again?” She handed him a packet of rice. “Put that away.”
“Mum, where’s the garage key?”
“What do you need it for?”
“My bike.”
“Homework done?” She shut the fridge and levelled a look at him.
“Yeah, check if you want.”
“The key…” Her gaze drifted absently around the kitchen. “Can’t remember. Wait for your dad—he’ll know.”
“When? Midnight?” Oliver snapped. “Everyone else rides whenever they want. Why’d it have to go in the garage? Could’ve left it on the balcony. And when he does get back, you’ll just start yelling again. Sick of it.” His voice cracked, frustration boiling over as he stormed off, slamming his bedroom door.
Lately, Dad was always late. The rows between his parents had become a daily soundtrack, the word “divorce” tossed around like a warning.
Oliver couldn’t imagine it. Sure, Dad barely asked about school anymore, and family outings were a distant memory. That one time Dad had been home early, asked how things were going—Oliver had started talking, only to notice the vacant stare. He wasn’t listening.
Then Mum had launched in, accusing Dad of not caring, of leaving Oliver adrift when he needed guidance… Oliver had fled to his room, pressing his pillow over his ears. But some things couldn’t be drowned out.
Ethan’s dad took him fishing and to football matches. Dan was always off on family trips. Oliver exhaled, sitting cross-legged on his bed, a book lying unread in his lap.
Mum nudged the door open, perching on the edge of the mattress. She reached to ruffle his hair, but Oliver jerked away.
“Found the garage key. If your homework’s really done…”
“It is,” he cut in.
“Right. Get your coat, then.”
Oliver hurled the book aside, yanked on his hoodie, and sprang up. “Ready!”
“Stay off the roads. Park or pavements only, understand?”
The garage was just down the street—five minutes max. The rusted lock fought him, screeching as he hauled the door open.
“I’ve told him a hundred times to oil these hinges,” Mum muttered, flicking the light on. A single bulb flickered to life, revealing shelves crammed with junk—tools, old boxes, a kitchen table shoved in a corner. The air was thick with petrol and heat from the sun-baked metal.
Oliver spotted his bike, hung high on the wall. “Can’t reach. Need the stool.”
Mum steadied it as he climbed, the wobble unnerving.
“Careful—I’ve got you.” She gripped his legs.
“Mum, that’s not helping. Hold the stool still.” The words came out sharper than he meant, almost like Dad’s impatient tone.
He shoved the bike upward, but it was too heavy. “Let me try,” Mum offered.
“I’ve got it!” Oliver strained, the stool tilting dangerously. “Mum, hold it—!” The bike lurched, but she caught it just in time.
Oliver jumped down, grinning. “Tyres are flat, though. Need the pump.”
Rummaging through tools yielded nothing. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll borrow Ethan’s.”
Mum’s phone rang. “It’s Dad,” she said flatly, answering.
“We’re at the garage. Oliver’s bike. You’re home early? How unexpected.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. A pause. “Couldn’t wait. You’ve been promising this for weeks. No, don’t bother coming. Just—where’s the pump?” She listened, then hung up with a glare.
“He doesn’t remember. Shocking. He’s on his way, though. Fancy waiting?” She perched unsteadily on the stool.
“Did you *really* finish your homework?”
They were still talking when the garage door flew open. Dad stood there, and Oliver bolted over.
“I got the bike down myself! But the tyres—we couldn’t find the pump—” He stopped. Mum wasn’t looking at Dad. Dad wasn’t looking at Mum. The air turned icy despite the garage’s warmth.
Oliver’s stomach twisted. *What if they really do split up?*
A memory flickered—a film where kids locked their divorcing parents in a basement until they made up. Oliver eyed the door. Now was his chance.
“Where are you going?” Mum called as he sidled toward the exit.
“Gonna ask Mr. Thompson if he’s got a pump.” He slipped outside, unhooked the padlock, then—quick as a flash—slammed the door and clicked it shut.
He pressed his back to the metal, heart hammering. Best not to think about the reckoning later. For now, they were trapped.
“Oliver! Open this door *now*!” Mum’s fists pounded the metal. “He’s locked us in—do something!”
“Ollie, open up. No shouting, I promise,” Dad said firmly. Then, louder, “Are you there? Enough jokes.”
“This is *your* fault! I’ve told you he’s struggling, and you’re never here—”
Oliver retreated, but not too far. Someone might hear.
What if Dad *did* have someone else? The thought burned. Mum used to smile so much. They’d all mucked about together—when had that stopped?
He crept back. The shouting had died to hissed arguments.
“Open it,” Dad commanded.
“When you stop fighting. I’m *sick* of it. Don’t you get tired? I just want things like before.” His voice broke. A kick to the door punctuated the plea.
Silence. Then, softer, Dad said, “We’re talking, okay?”
Oliver wandered the estate, ignoring Ethan’s calls. He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to be like Dad—once, he’d worn Dad’s hoodie for hours, refusing to let Mum wash it, clinging to the smell. Now the memory brought fresh tears.
By dusk, he returned to the garage. No noise. Panic flared—what if something was wrong? Hands shaking, he unlatched the door.
Mum and Dad sat at the old table, her head on his shoulder. They didn’t move—no shouting, no threats.
“You… okay?” Oliver panted.
Dad shifted. “Up you get. Punishment’s over.” He stood, stretching. “Bike’s sorted—pump was in the car. I’m starving.” His tone was eerily normal.
“We *will* discuss this,” Mum added, but her mouth twitched.
“Ought to wallop you for that stunt,” Dad said—half joking. And then Mum *smiled* at him.
Oliver gaped. They hadn’t looked this calm in years.
Dad locked up, slinging an arm around Mum as they walked home. Oliver wheeled his bike, stealing glances.
“Lovely evening. Almost summer. Fancy going to Paul’s cottage for the bank holiday? He’s been asking.”
“Let’s,” Mum agreed. “Been ages since we did anything together.”
A miracle. No eye-roll, no *”You actually mean it this time?”As Oliver fell asleep that night, the quiet murmur of his parents’ laughter drifting from the kitchen, he finally let himself believe that some storms, once weathered, could leave the air clearer and the ground more solid than before.
