Emily walked home from school in high spirits. Today, her class had collected money for flowers and a gift for their form tutor. Andrew had mentioned that women loved roses, and when he said it, his gaze lingered on her just a fraction longer than necessary. Her heart fluttered at the thought—was he hinting at what he might give her for Mother’s Day? The other girls would be green with envy.
Andrew had caught her eye the moment he first stepped into the classroom. Last year, his father had been transferred to the military base near their town. Andrew carried himself with quiet confidence, like he couldn’t care less what others thought of him. That was what drew Emily in—she was always fretting over appearances, terrified of making a fool of herself.
By now, the whole class respected Andrew. He wasn’t the type to boss people around, but even teachers listened when he spoke.
Though it was still February, spring teased at the edges of the day. Birds chirped in the mornings, the sun shone more often, and icicles dripped from the rooftops. A strange, hopeful ache settled in Emily’s chest, as if something extraordinary waited just around the corner.
She pushed open the front door and was immediately met with shouting. Her parents were at it again. The good mood shattered. It hadn’t always been like this—they used to take trips to the seaside, laugh over Christmas with sparklers in hand. What if they divorced? Would those memories vanish forever?
Nina from her class had once said her mum slit her wrists when her dad left. She’d cried through lessons for weeks. Another girl, Sophie, claimed split parents were better—double the gifts, double the money. But was happiness really measured in presents and pocket change?
The shouting stopped abruptly. Emily tiptoed to the ajar kitchen door and peeked in. Her dad stood by the window, back turned. Her mum sat at the table, face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking.
“Calm down,” her dad muttered, still facing away. “Emily will be home soon. What do I have to do to make you believe me?” He turned then, catching sight of her in the doorway.
“How long have you been eavesdropping?” he snapped.
“Long enough,” Emily shot back.
“Long enough for what?” Her mum lifted her face—mascara smeared, eyes red and puffy. Emily bit back irritation. Couldn’t she see how much this drove him away?
“You’re getting divorced,” Emily blurted.
Her dad frowned but stayed silent.
“Did either of you even think about me? Have you decided who I’ll live with? Or is my opinion irrelevant? I don’t want to pick one of you—I want both of you!” Her voice cracked. “If you’re sick of each other, then I want new parents. I hate you—both of you!”
She whirled around, grabbed her coat, and stormed out.
“Emily!” Her mum’s voice cut off as the door slammed.
She skipped the lift, took the stairs instead. Outside, she pulled on her gloves, wondering which friend’s house to crash at. But she wasn’t in the mood to talk. If even her parents didn’t care, who would understand?
She walked aimlessly. The afternoon thaw had turned to an evening frost. After two bus stops, she ducked into a corner shop to warm up. The sight of sausage rolls made her mouth water.
Digging loose change from her pocket, she bought one. As soon as she stepped outside, she tore into it. Halfway through the last bite, someone called her name.
She turned to see Jack from the parallel class.
“Hey,” he said. “Out for a stroll?”
Mouth full, she couldn’t answer. The dry pastry clung to her throat.
Jack fished a water bottle from his gym bag and handed it over.
“Here. Don’t choke.”
She took it gratefully. The lump went down.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, handing it back before turning to leave.
“Your house is the other way,” he pointed out.
“None of your business,” she muttered.
“It’s dark. Not safe alone, and shops are closing. Let me walk you.”
After a pause, she nodded. They fell into step, chatting about Jack’s upcoming rugby matches, training, teachers. At the turn to her street, she stopped.
“Live here? Don’t fancy going home? Parents being… parents?” He smirked.
“They’re divorcing,” she admitted quietly.
“Ah. When my dad left, I ran off too. Thought if they searched for me together, they might make up. Shared grief and all that.”
“And?”
“They did. For a bit. But he still left. Spent two nights in a basement before the police found me. That damp smell clung to me for weeks.”
“And your dad?”
“What about him? Young wife now. Pretty, but nasty. Mum’s better.”
“Does she… see anyone?”
“A bloke? Nah. Just me. Though I wouldn’t mind if she moved on. She still loves him, though.”
“You talk about it so easily.”
“What’s the point in stewing? Can’t change it. At least it’s quiet now. No more rows. Dad would’ve kept cheating if he’d stayed—this way, Mum’s free. Silver linings, right? Fancy coming to mine? I’ll put the kettle on.”
“Your mum won’t mind?”
“Glued to the telly evenings. We’ll sneak to my room—she never checks.”
Emily eyed the empty street. Fewer cars now. Fewer people.
“Alright.”
Jack lived past the school—probably why they’d never talked much.
“You see your dad still?”
“Sometimes. He’s happy. His life, ours… separate.”
The rest of the walk passed in silence.
At his flat, they crept to his room. Emily didn’t spot the sliver of light under his mum’s door or hear the TV. Maybe she’d gone to bed.
The room was narrow, lined with old motorbike posters and action movie stars.
“Kid stuff,” Jack said. “Never got round to taking them down. Make yourself comfy—I’ll fetch food.”
Emily browsed his bookshelf—school texts, Ivanhoe, The Three Musketeers. A poetry collection surprised her. Boys didn’t usually read those.
Jack returned with tea and a plate.
“Eat up. Two sugars—enough?”
“Perfect.” Her stomach growled at the sight of the sandwich.
“You?”
“Had mine while the kettle boiled.”
“And your mum didn’t notice?”
“Asleep.”
“This early?”
“Surgeon. Long shifts.” He ducked out again.
Emily ate quickly, trying not to clatter the fork. After the tea, drowsiness hit hard. She curled on the sofa, resting her head on the armrest.
She woke hours later, desperate for the loo. Too scared to navigate the dark flat, she nudged Jack awake.
“Wha—?”
“Shh! Need the toilet. Come with me?”
He staggered up, rubbing his face.
In the hallway light, he pointed her to the bathroom.
“Don’t leave,” she whispered.
She ran the tap to cover the noise. When she stepped out, Jack was leaning against the opposite wall.
“I should go home,” she said.
“Sure? It’s half two. I’ll walk you.”
“It’s fine—”
“No way. Not alone at night.” He grabbed his trainers, dropping a shoehorn with a clatter.
“Quiet! You’ll wake your mum!”
“Not here. Night shift.”
“You said—”
“Because you wouldn’t have come otherwise, would you?”
They left. The streets were dead, only a few lit windows in the distance. Cold bit deeper after sleep. Emily shoved her hands into her pockets, slipping on icy patches until they reached her building.
“Thanks,” she said at the door.
“No bother.” He turned to leave.
“Where were you? We called every hospital—” Her mum pounced the second she stepped inside.
Her dad appeared in the doorway.
“You alright?”
“Fine.” She brushed past.
At her bedroom door, she paused.
“Night, parents.”
She thought sleep would be impossible, but as soon as her head hit the pillow, she was out.
At breakfast, her mum studied her.
“Nothing to say?”
Her dad had left for work.
“You?” Emily countered.
“If you mean the divorce… we’re not. For now.”
Her mum sat opposite, exhaustion etched into her face.
“Because of me? Just to suffer longer? If you keep fighting, I’ll leave for real.” The words came calmly—Jack’s story echoing in her mind.
“We were terrified for you. Do I… look that bad?”
“Honestly? You’ve looked the same for years. New haircut, brighter makeup—if you want Dad to stop eyeing other women and locking himself in the loo with his phone.”
“And don’t look at me like that. You asked. Dad’s obvious. But you? When did you stop trying?”
Her mum blinked.
“TAs she watched her parents exchange a hesitant but hopeful glance over the breakfast table, Emily realized that love, much like the changing seasons, had its own way of finding its way back to warmth.
