CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EMMA
The school run feels different when you’re holding onto something secret.
Not dramatic-secret. Not affair-secret.
Just a tiny, fragile thread of anticipation humming quietly under your skin.
Oscar is stomping ahead because his jumper “feels aggressive.” Sophie is mid-monologue about a friendship drama involving stickers. Ruby is in the buggy chanting, “Milk! Milk! Milk!” like she’s part of some dairy-based prophecy.
And I’m smiling. Like an idiot.
Oakwood is looking extra pretty today. The cobbled streets uneven beneath my trainers, the bakery doors propped open, the smell of coffee drifting through the crisp morning air. Parents gather at the school gates in clusters, half-listening to each other while mentally scanning the week ahead.
Eleanor looks polished as always.
Freya looks like she’s barely holding it together.
I feel… different.
Because later, I’m going to get milk.
With my husband. The absurdity of that makes me laugh out loud.
“What?” Sophie asks suspiciously.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just… life.”
I kiss them goodbye at the gates, watch them disappear into the building, and for a second I feel it, that soft ache of watching your children grow without asking your permission.
Then my phone buzzes.
I don’t even have to look to know it’s the girls’ group chat.
Lou: Is it just me or is today dragging?
Abigail: Babe it’s 8:40
Clara: Mine’s been up since 5:12 asking existential questions about socks.
Hannah: At least your existential crisis isn’t thirty school kids arguing over whose turn it is to sharpen the class pencil.
I smile.
Then I type.
Emma: Dan and I are going to get milk together later.
There’s a pause.
Then chaos.
Lou: OH MY GOD.
Clara: I’m sorry… what?
Hannah: Together… as in… just the two of you?
Emma: Yes.
Lou: Emma.
Clara: This feels filthy.
Hannah: Do you need me to babysit or are you just raw-dogging Tesco?
I choke on air.
Emma: STOP IT.
Lou: Make sure you wear protection.
Clara: Don’t forget foreplay. Maybe compare brands of semi-skimmed seductively.
Hannah: If you come back pregnant from aisle three I’m not responsible.
I’m laughing so hard Ruby turns around in the buggy to check I haven’t lost my mind.
But beneath the jokes, there’s something else.
Support.
Hope.
They know what this is really about.
Lou: Proud of you though.
Clara: It’s small. But it’s not small.
Hannah: Milk is the gateway drug to communication.
I stare at that last message longer than I mean to. Because that’s exactly what it feels like. A doorway.
The day stretches strangely.
I tidy.
I half-work.
I attempt to play with Ruby but keep glancing at the clock like a teenager waiting for a first date.
It’s ridiculous.
We’ve been married for years. I’ve had three children with this man. And yet the idea of walking beside him tonight makes my stomach flutter.
What if it’s awkward?
What if we don’t know what to say?
What if the spark was just… wishful thinking?
And then the other voice answers:
What if it isn’t?
At lunch time I drop Ruby in for her afternoon in pre-school.
The butterflies lurch in my stomach as I make the walk back, eagerly awaiting Dans return from work.
It’s 2:03 p.m.
The front door opens.
Dan steps in, loosening his tie, scanning the room.
“Still up for milk?” he asks.
There’s that carefulness again. Like he’s expecting me to bail.
“Absolutely,” I say, maybe a bit too quickly.
He smiles.
And something in my chest steadies.
We don’t make a big thing of it. No grand announcements. Just jackets on. Keys grabbed.
The cool air hits us as we step outside.
Oakwood during school hours is softer. Quieter. The pub down the road hums with low conversation. Windows flicker with warm domestic scenes.
We fall into step beside each other.
Not touching at first. Just walking.
The sound of our footsteps echoing slightly on the uneven stones.
We walk past the old bakery. Past the florist. Past the little Italian bistro we used to go to, fairy lights still twinkling in the window.
I feel it again, that ache.
He must notice because he says, “We should go back there.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A pause.
Then, quietly, “I liked who we were there.”
My throat tightens.
“Me too.”
And then it happens. His hand brushes mine. Accidental. Maybe. Then it comes back. Intentional.
His fingers curl around mine slowly, like he’s testing whether I’ll pull away.
I don’t. God, I don’t. It feels… familiar. Warm. Solid.
His thumb rubs gently across my knuckles like muscle memory.
And I realise something terrifying.
I’ve missed this more than I’ve allowed myself to admit. Not the grand gestures. Not the dramatic romance. Just this.
Being held.
Being chosen.
Being touched without being needed.
We walk like that the rest of the way to the supermarket.
Side by side.
Hands linked.
Talking about small things. Work. The kids. The way Oscar insists subterranean is a useless word. But underneath it all, there’s something else.
A current.
When we reach the automatic doors, he doesn’t let go straight away. Instead he squeezes once. Grounding.
“I’m glad we did this,” he says.
“It’s just milk,” I tease.
He looks at me properly then.
“No,” he says softly. “It isn’t.”
And suddenly the fluorescent lights don’t feel quite so unromantic. Because this doesn’t feel like an errand.
It feels like the first step back toward something that was always ours.