CHAPTER FIVE
DAN
I’m awake before it vibrates.
For a moment I don’t know why. Then it hits me.
Six.
I told Emma I’d do the morning.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening.
The house is quiet in that fragile way that means it won’t be for long. Ruby makes a small snuffling sound in the Moses basket. Emma shifts beside her, instinctively, even in sleep.
She looks wrecked.
Even in the dim light I can see it. The shadows under her eyes. The way her body curls around Ruby like she’s bracing against something.
Guilt creeps in.
Right. Morning. I’ve got this.
I slide out of bed carefully, avoiding the floorboard. Small win. No creak.
In the kitchen, it feels almost peaceful. I stand there for a second, absurdly proud of myself.
Kettle on. Coffee first. Then breakfast.
Oscar appears before the kettle’s finished boiling.
“Where’s Mum?”
“She’s sleeping,” I say firmly. “I’m on duty.”
He looks unconvinced. “Why?”
“Because I said I would be.”
He shrugs like that’s not a real reason and opens the cupboard. “There’s no Coco Pops.”
“There are Weetabix.”
He stares at me like I’ve suggested gravel.
Sophie wanders in next, hair tangled, dragging her unicorn blanket behind her.
“I need my yellow top,” she says.
My brain blanks.
“Your what?”
“For school. It’s Wear Yellow Day.”
Ah.
Right.
Emma definitely mentioned something about yellow.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “We’ll find one.”
Sophie’s face shifts immediately into pre-meltdown mode. “It has to be the right yellow.”
Of course it does.
Ruby starts crying upstairs.
Oscar groans. “Mum would know where it is.”
The words aren’t cruel. They’re factual.
That somehow makes them worse.
“I’ll find it,” I say.
I open Sophie’s drawer. No yellow.
Laundry basket? Nothing obvious. I stand there holding a pale cream cardigan and wondering if it’s close enough.
Ruby’s crying escalates.
Oscar shouts from the kitchen, “Dad, I can’t find my PE kit!”
I close my eyes for a second.
Right. PE kit. Where would that be? Cupboard? Hall? Car?
Emma’s voice floats through my head, something about washing it Sunday. Or was it Monday? I head to the airing cupboard. Towels. Spare bedding. A half-empty pack of nappies.
Ruby is properly crying now.
“I’ve got her!” I shout, even though I don’t. I’m still halfway down the stairs.
By the time I reach the bedroom, Emma is already sitting up, Ruby in her arms. I stop in the doorway.
“I was coming,” I say.
She doesn’t look at me. “It’s fine.”
It’s not angry. It’s not even sharp. It’s worse. It’s tired.
“I’ve got the kids,” I add quickly. “Sophie needs a yellow top. And Oscar can’t find his PE kit.”
Emma closes her eyes briefly.
“Yellow’s in the clean laundry basket,” she says. “Under the radiator. And the PE kit’s in the boot. I washed it Sunday.”
Of course it is. Of course she did.
“Right,” I say.
She nods, already focused back on Ruby. I stand there a second longer than I need to. Waiting, maybe, for something. Gratitude? Acknowledgment? I don’t know. She doesn’t look up.
Back downstairs, I find the yellow top exactly where she said. I retrieve the PE kit from the car. I pour cereal. I sign the school trip form after rummaging through Sophie’s bag like I’m defusing a device.
By 8:32, both kids are dressed. Teeth brushed. Bags packed. This feels like a triumph. Emma appears in the hallway, Ruby strapped to her chest in the sling, hair scraped back. She looks at the kids. Then at me.
“You found it,” she says.
“Of course I did,” I reply, lighter than I feel.
There’s a pause.
She nods. “Thank you.”
It’s sincere. But it’s small. I want it to feel bigger.
On the school run, Oakwood is already alive. Parents clustered in the playground, coffee cups in hand. The same faces. The same nods.
Freya waves at Emma from the gate, her son, Theo running along ahead of her.
“Surviving?” Freya calls.
Emma smiles. “Define surviving.”
They laugh.
I stand slightly behind them, adjusting Oscar’s backpack strap.
Eleanor walks past, immaculate as always. Blonde hair smooth. Sunglasses on despite the cloud cover.
“Three under ten,” she says lightly to Emma. “Brave.”
Emma laughs again, but it’s tighter this time.
I feel something shift.
I don’t know these undercurrents. I don’t know what that comment means in Oakwood language. I don’t know which smiles are genuine and which are competition.