CHAPTER SIX
EMMA
I used to think the school gates would feel temporary.
A phase.
Like baby groups. Like toddler classes. A blur of plastic cups and lukewarm coffee that you survive and forget.
But Oakwood isn’t a phase.
Oakwood is a society.
And this morning, I am its least polished member.
Ruby is strapped to my chest, snuffling sleepily, her warm weight grounding and suffocating all at once. I haven’t brushed my hair properly. I’m wearing leggings that may or may not have baby sick on them. I didn’t check.
Eleanor is already there, leaning against the brick wall like she’s posing for an advert titled Effortless Motherhood. Her twins looking just as perfect as she does.
Freya appears along the path with Theo, Sophie’s classmate bounding up to tell her about his new watch.
“Bringing all three on the school run, you’re a hero Em!”
“I’m an idiot,” I reply. “There’s a difference.”
She laughs. “How’s Dan coping?”
The question shouldn’t feel loaded.
“Fine,” I say. “He did the morning.”
“Ooooh,” she teases. “We love growth.”
I smile, but it’s thin.
Did he do the morning? Technically yes. The kids were dressed.
The forms were signed. The PE kit materialised like magic.
But he didn’t wake at 2:13 a.m. when Ruby grunted.
He didn’t lie awake at 4:47 wondering if Sophie’s cough sounded worse.
He didn’t mentally rehearse the week ahead while staring at the ceiling. He did the visible part.
Freya tilts her head. “You look shattered.”
“I had a baby three weeks ago.” I shrug. “And I’m tired.”
She softens. “Are you okay?”
I open my mouth to say yes.
Instead, I shrug, knowing that there’s too many ears around.
That’s the problem with Oakwood. You can’t say too much. Everything becomes currency. Information travels faster than the Year Three WhatsApp group.
Clara glides past us, looking gloriously put together but in a non-judgemental way.
“Good morning,” she says lightly.
“Morning,” we chorus.
She gives Ruby a brief glance. “She’s lovely. You’re so brave being out and about with her.”
There it is again.
Brave.
As if three children is a personality flaw.
“Or reckless,” I say, before I can stop myself.
Clara smiles. “You’ve got this. Even if you feel like you don’t. Motherhood is tough!”
Eleanor swoops past us smelling of something expensive and floral. “Not for everyone it’s not.”
Freya makes a tiny choking noise beside me and Clara scowls like her life depends on it.
But the truth is, I do often wonder if that’s true. If everyone finds motherhood as hard as I do or if I’m flawed, if Ruby was one child too many.
I brush the thought out of my head.
I look down at her soft, sleepy face and feel a flicker of defiance. Ruby isn’t a mistake. She’s chaos and noise and milk stains and she is perfect.
But the word balance lingers.
Did I tip us too far?
The bell rings and the children scatter.
Oscar barely looks back. Sophie waves dramatically like she’s embarking on a gap year.
Dan squeezes my shoulder before heading home to get to work while I take a detour to Rose’s Café. “Text me if you need anything.”
Anything.
I almost laugh.
What I need can’t be delivered between meetings.
On the walk towards the café, Ruby wakes properly, rooting and impatient. I adjust the sling, shifting her weight. My body feels unfamiliar. Softer. Heavier. Stretched in places I don’t recognise.
A car slows beside me.
Hannah’s window rolls down.
“You look like death,” she says cheerfully.
“Love you too.”
She grins. “Coffee?”
I hesitate. I hadn’t planned on sitting in.
There’s washing at home. Bottles to sterilise. A mental list so long it scrolls.
But Hannah is looking at me like she sees something the others don’t.
“Fine,” I say. “But if Ruby screams, you’re holding her.”
Hannah laughs. “Deal.”
In the café, I notice how other women look at Ruby. Some with longing. Some with relief that it’s not them. Some with polite distance.
Hannah studies me over her mug.
“You’re spiralling,” she says.
“I’m not spiralling.”
“You are. Your left eye twitches when you’re spiralling.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m just tired.”
“Is Dan stepping up?”
The question makes my chest tighten.
“He did the morning,” I say.
“And?”
“And… he did it.”
Hannah waits.
I stare into my coffee. “I don’t want help like I’m a manager delegating tasks. I want him to know.”
“To know what?”
“Everything.”
She nods slowly. “Ah.”
“I don’t want to explain the mental load like it’s a presentation,” I say quietly. “I want to feel like I’m not alone in it.”
Hannah reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.
“You’re not alone,” she says.
I smile. But she doesn’t mean what I mean.
When I get home, the house feels different. Quieter. Controlled. Dan has wiped the counters. The dishwasher is running. It should feel like relief. Instead, it feels like evidence. Proof that if he tries, he can. So why am I still carrying it all in my head?
Ruby cries again, hungry and furious and entirely dependent. I sink onto the sofa and lift her, my body responding before my brain catches up.
Through the window, I can see Oakwood Primary in the distance. The brick building. The playground. The invisible web of mothers and expectations and comparisons.
The mums will be at toddler group tomorrow.
Eleanor will probably host something immaculate and exhausting.
There will be birthday parties and bake sales and uniforms that don’t quite fit.
And I will be there. Visible. Present. Essential.
But somewhere along the way, I stopped being chosen. I became required.
Ruby sighs against my chest, milk-drunk and heavy.
“I love you,” I whisper to her. I do. God, I do.
But as I sit there in the quiet house, surrounded by clean counters and ticking clocks and invisible lists, I realise something that makes my throat close.
Dan is trying. I can see that. But trying to help isn’t the same as trying to understand.
And I don’t know how to ask for the second without sounding ungrateful for the first.
Outside, the school bell rings faintly in the distance.
And the day rolls forward.
So do we.