“What if Mum and Dad really do get a divorce?” The terrible thought twisted Ollie’s stomach into knots, and he suddenly felt like crying.
The three friends were walking home from school. The spring sun glared straight into their eyes as they shoved each other playfully, laughing and teasing. Outside Ben’s house, they stopped.
“Coming out on your bike later? Me and Jake had a wicked time tearing through the park yesterday,” Ben said.
Ollie frowned. He’d been begging his dad for weeks to bring his bike back from the garage, but there was never time. Either work ran late, leaving no daylight, or weekends were swallowed by chores and forgotten promises.
“You coming?” Ben nudged Ollie’s shoulder.
“Dunno. Bike’s still in the garage. If Dad gets back early—”
“Why don’t you just grab it yourself? Anyway, we’ll be at the park by seven—catch you there.” Ben slapped his palm forward, and the boys took turns bumping it in farewell.
At the next block, Ollie waved Jake off. Maybe he *should* look for the garage key. Dad only parked the car there in winter. He probably didn’t carry it around. The thought lodged in Ollie’s mind, and he hurried home, the last of the three to reach his doorstep.
Inside, Ollie changed and immediately rifled through the junk drawer where spare keys usually lived. No luck. He searched halfheartedly for a while before giving up and settling into homework. When Mum got back, he’d ask her. But if his books weren’t done, she’d never hand it over.
Miraculously, Ollie finished in just ninety minutes—a record. Usually, it took twice as long. The front door clicked. “Mum!” He bolted to greet her.
“Hi, love,” she sighed, shuffling past with groceries.
Ollie followed her to the kitchen, watching her unpack.
“You didn’t touch the pasta and meatballs. Just had sandwiches again, didn’t you? Put this away.” She handed him a packet of rice.
“Mum, where’s the garage key?”
“What for?”
“Need my bike.”
“Homework done?” She shut the fridge and eyed him.
“Yeah. Check if you want.”
“The key…” Her gaze drifted around the kitchen. “Can’t remember. Wait for your dad—he’ll know.”
“When’s *he* getting back? Midnight?” Ollie snapped. “All my mates have been riding for ages. Why’d it even have to go in the garage? Could’ve left it on the balcony. But no, you lot are too busy yelling at each other. Sick of it.” He stormed off, slamming his bedroom door, knowing full well he wouldn’t be cycling tonight.
Lately, Dad was always late. The shouting matches between his parents had become daily rituals. The word *divorce* hung in the air like a storm cloud.
Ollie couldn’t imagine it. Sure, Dad barely asked about school anymore, and they never did things as a family. That one time he’d come home on schedule, he’d asked about Ollie’s day over dinner. Ollie had started eagerly, then trailed off at Dad’s distant stare. He wasn’t listening.
Cue Mum’s lecture—how Dad didn’t care, how Ollie needed guidance *now*, during a crucial age. Ollie had retreated to his room, pressing a pillow over his ears. But some sounds you couldn’t drown out.
All his friends had normal families. Ben’s dad took him fishing, to football matches. Jake was always off on family trips. Ollie sighed.
Sitting cross-legged on his bed, he clutched a book but never turned a page. Mum stepped in, perching on the edge of the mattress, reaching to smooth his hair. Ollie jerked away.
“Found the garage key. If your homework’s really done—”
“It is,” he muttered.
“All right, get dressed. We’ll go together.”
Ollie tossed the book aside, yanked on a hoodie, and grinned. “Ready.”
“Stay off the roads. Stick to the park or pavements,” Mum said, rising.
The garage was just five minutes away. Ollie wrestled the rusted lock open, heaving the metal door aside 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. Shelves groaned with boxes, tools, and clutter. In one corner stood an old kitchen table and mismatched stools. The garage was less a parking space, more a dumping ground for things too useless to keep but too sentimental to toss.
The day’s heat had soaked into the metal, leaving the air thick with the scent of engine oil and petrol. Ollie spotted his bike instantly—hooked high on a wall, just out of reach.
“You’ll need a stool,” Mum said.
Ollie wobbled as he climbed onto the rickety seat.
“Careful—” She gripped his legs.
“Mum, that’s not helping. Hold the stool *steady*.” The words came out sharper than he’d meant, almost like Dad.
He heaved the bike upward but couldn’t free it from the hook.
“Let me try,” Mum offered.
“I’ve got it.” Ollie strained onto tiptoes, shoving violently. The stool lurched.
“Mum, *hold it*!” The bike nearly toppled, but Mum caught it just in time.
Ollie jumped down, dusting his hands, already picturing himself racing through the park.
“Tyres are flat. Needs pumping,” Mum said. “Look for the pump.”
Ollie rummaged but came up empty.
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll ride like this or borrow Ben’s.”
Just then, Mum’s phone buzzed. She fished it from her pocket.
“Your dad.” She pressed it to her ear. “We’re at the garage… Ollie needed his bike. Why so early today?” Her voice dripped sarcasm before falling silent, listening.
“Couldn’t wait. You’ve been promising him for weeks… Oh, suddenly it’s urgent? Don’t bother coming—just tell me where the pump is.” She hung up, scowling.
“He doesn’t remember. Shocking he hasn’t forgotten *us* yet.” She sighed. “He’s on his way. Wait here?” She perched on the wobbly stool.
“Homework *definitely* done? Exams are coming—”
They were still talking when the garage door swung wide. Dad stood framed in the light. Ollie darted to him.
“I got the bike down myself!” he bragged. “Dad, the tyres need air—we couldn’t find—”
He glanced at Mum and stopped. She was studying the floor. Dad, too, avoided looking at her. The air between them was ice. Ollie’s excitement fizzled, replaced by a creeping dread, though the garage was stifling.
Dad searched the shelves for the pump while Ollie watched, stomach churning. *What if they really do split up?* The thought twisted deeper, and tears pricked his eyes.
Once, he’d seen a film where kids locked their divorcing parents in a basement to force them to talk. It had worked.
The idea flashed in Ollie’s mind. Now was his chance—he had to act fast.
“Where are you going?” Mum called as he headed for the door.
“Checking if Mr. Thompson’s home—might borrow his pump.” Ollie stepped out, heart hammering.
The padlock dangled from its hinge. He unhooked it quietly, slipped behind the door, and slammed it shut. The lock clicked into place. He pressed his back against the metal, breathing hard.
He didn’t want to think about the reckoning later. Right now, they were trapped. He glanced around—no one in sight. The key burned in his grip.
“Ollie, this isn’t funny! Open up!” Mum pounded the door. “He’s locked us in! *Do something!*”
“Oliver. Open. Now.” Dad’s voice was steel. “I won’t shout. Promise.” A lie. “Enough jokes.”
“This is *your* fault! I’ve told you—he needs you *now*—” Mum’s voice cracked.
Ollie backed away, but not far. Someone might hear.
His mind raced. What if Dad *did* have someone else? And Mum—he remembered her laughter, the way they used to play-fight like kids. When had that stopped? *Does he even love us anymore?* The thought seared him.
He crept back. The shouting had paused—had they sensed him?
“Ollie. Open the door,” Dad called.
“Not till you fix this. I’m *sick* of the fighting. I love you both. Just *talk*.” His voice broke. He kicked the door, hard.
Silence. Then murmurs. Had they heard his tears?
Ollie walked laps around the garages. Ben called, but he ignoredHe clutched the key tight, watching the garage door, praying they’d come out smiling like they used to.
