CHAPTER FIFTEEN #2
The pile of unopened letters on the counter has reached a height that could structurally support a small child.
Some are bills, some are probably important, and at least a third of them are junk mail trying to convince us to switch broadband.
I should go through them. Instead, I walk past them, like I do every day.
The house itself is fine, more than fine, really.
It’s a cute terraced cottage, the kind that looks unassuming from the outside but quietly inviting once you step through the door.
It sits on a neat row of six cottages just outside the centre of Oakwood, close enough to feel connected but far enough to escape the constant hum of the town.
Each cottage has a small front garden, and most of them are lovingly tended, overflowing with flowers, ornaments, and the occasional gnome; unsurprising, given that we’re surrounded by mostly elderly neighbours who treat gardening like both a hobby and a competitive sport.
The previous owners modernised our cottage slightly, just enough to make it comfortable without erasing its history.
Clean lines and practical updates sit alongside older features, creating a balance between old and new.
It may not ooze charm in every corner, but it feels solid and lived-in, like a place that understands family life and can weather a bit of noise, mess, and chaos.
Oakwood itself is a wonderful place to live.
It has great schools, a charming old-town feel, and crime rates so low they’re barely worth mentioning.
It’s quaint without being sleepy, familiar without feeling trapped, and best of all, it’s close enough to the city to make life convenient while still feeling like a world of its own.
Despite being happy with where we live and mostly happy with our house, it does feel like it isn’t big enough to house the huge amount of stuff that inevitably comes with having kids.
Cupboards? Bursting at the seams.
Drawers? Stuffed full of things we don’t even remember owning.
Every possible “hidey hole”? Jam-packed with more things we don’t remember owning.
I swear, I opened the airing cupboard last week, and an avalanche of towels and rogue water pistols nearly took me out.
The girls share a room, and I don’t know what it is about girls, but why are they so messy?
It’s like they wake up, take one look at their bedroom, and think, Hmm, this is too tidy, before proceeding to scatter every item of clothing and every single small plastic toy across the floor like some kind of deranged artist. I have nearly broken an ankle on a Barbie shoe more times than I care to admit.
Oscar is slightly more tidy, but even his room is bursting at the seams. The child has enough Lego to build a small functioning city, and every shelf, drawer, and under-bed space is full.
Honestly, at this point, we need ceiling storage.
Just some nice little baskets hanging from above, like a bizarre but functional chandelier of stuff.
I glance at the half-finished DIY projects Dan started “ages ago” (his words) and sigh.
How do other people make their houses look effortlessly tidy?
You know the ones; the Pinterest people.
The ones with minimalist, beige-toned homes where a single decorative vase sits on a shelf, and there’s no clutter in sight.
Do their children just… not own things? Do they have some kind of magical storage dimension?
Or are they just better at pretending they have their lives together?
I bet Eleanor’s house is Pinterest worthy.
I pick up a half-eaten biscuit from the arm of the sofa, sigh again, and do what any reasonable adult would do in this situation.
I make a cup of tea, sit down, and ignore the mess for just a little longer. And yes, I eat the biscuit.
Dan’s laptop sits open on the kitchen counter, an unfinished email frozen mid-sentence.
It looks like something straight out of a thriller movie; the kind where someone gets mysteriously kidnapped while typing.
A half-drunk coffee sits beside it, still warm.
A chair slightly pushed back, like he got up in a rush.
The eerie silence of a man who has simply… vanished.
Except I know exactly where he is.
And where he will be for the next 45 minutes.
He’s on the loo.
It is one of life’s greatest mysteries, one that has baffled women for centuries: Why does it take men so long to poo? Like, is it a medical condition? A full-body experience? A spiritual awakening? Does he lose track of time? Is he writing a novel in there?
Meanwhile, in the time it takes Dan to “do his business,” I:
Pick up all the toys off the living room floor (including several small, spiky objects designed solely to injure parents).
Wipe up the toast crumbs off the counter, because apparently, the ability to use a plate is a rare and precious gift in this household.
Gather up the kids’ abandoned socks, because for some reason, they remove them in random locations like they’re marking territory.
Mentally run through all the other things I could have done if I had 45 uninterrupted minutes.
And yet, Dan will emerge from the bathroom eventually, stretching like he’s just completed a hard day’s work, completely unaware of the fact that an entire shift has been completed outside that door.
“Everything okay?” he’ll ask, as if I haven’t basically reset the entire house while he’s been sitting on the porcelain throne, scrolling through his phone like a man on a mission.
Maybe one day, we’ll crack the mystery. But for now, I’ll just continue running the household while my husband embarks on his daily journey.
Dan finally emerges from the toilet. He looks well-rested. Rejuvenated. A new man. Meanwhile, I’ve practically deep-cleaned the house, solved three minor household crises, and probably aged about five years.
As he strolls into the kitchen, I casually suggest that at some point during the day, we take a break and have a chat about us.
His whole body tenses. The colour drains from his face. His eyes widen with pure, unfiltered fear.
It’s the fear. The same fear that flashes across every man’s face when their partner says, “We need to talk.” As though at any moment, I’m going to announce that I’m leaving him. Or worse, that I’m pregnant again.
He’s terrified.
I roll my eyes and quickly reassure him. “Relax, it’s nothing bad. I just think we need to talk about how we get back on track.”
He nods, but I can tell he’s still on high alert.
We both retreat to our respective workspaces, which is a fancy way of saying he opens his laptop at the kitchen counter, and I curl up on the sofa with mine, because our house has no space for an actual office.
Our home office is whatever surface isn’t currently covered in children’s toys, unpaid bills, or crumbs.
I sigh, taking a sip of my now-lukewarm coffee, while Dan sits tensely at his laptop, probably still worrying that at any second, I’m going to drop some life-altering news on him.
Bless him.
I’ll let him sweat for a little while longer.
Meanwhile, whilst attempting to get some work done, the year three Whatsapp chat is popping off, telling me that something has gone down at Oakwood!
Clara: OMG did you guys hear? Rory Bennett has enrolled his daughter into year three at Oakwood! Does this mean there’s trouble in city paradise?
Abigail: My mum is friends with his mum. Apparently his supermodel wife left him and he’s moving back. So yes, single and hopefully ready to mingle. Would it be rude to shotgun him?
Clara: PAHA! I think you’ll be in a long queue of Oakwood women shotgunning him. Eh Freya? ;)
Lou: I am joining the queue! I’m sure my husband won’t mind
Clara: Yeah he does have the whole quiet and mysterious thing going on.
Clara: Freya…?
Freya: What day is PE again?
Clara: HA. Way to change subject babe.
Steph: What am I missing? Does Frey have the hots for the Rugby superstar?
Clara: You could say that yeah.
Honestly, these women are like a pack of wolves on heat. Thankfully I have absolutely no interest in joining the queue for Rory Bennett.
I look over at Dan who is definitely acting busy.
I know this because, for the past 45 minutes, he’s been typing at an alarming speed for someone who usually takes three working days to reply to a WhatsApp message.
His face is scrunched up in deep concentration, nodding at his screen like he’s solving world hunger, ending climate change, and filing a tax return all at once.
He works as a software developer.
I let it slide for a while. I know the game he’s playing; stay just busy enough, and maybe I’ll forget we were meant to talk.
Nice try, Daniel.
But the school run is in an hour, and if I don’t grab him now, we’ll be knee-deep in coats, snacks, and complaints about whose turn it is to sit in the front before we know it.
So I march over and stand directly in front of him. He glances up, eyes darting around like he’s searching for an emergency exit.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s have our chat.”
He exhales dramatically, like I’ve just asked him to dig a hole with his bare hands. But he knows resistance is futile, so he reluctantly closes his laptop and follows me into the dining room.
It’s only when we sit down at the table, on opposite ends, miles apart like we’re about to negotiate a business merger in the boardroom, that we both burst out laughing.
“Feels a bit formal, doesn’t it?” Dan says, adjusting his seat like he’s preparing to present quarterly earnings.
“Yeah, well,” I smirk. “We’re here to lay our cards on the table.”
He nods, suddenly looking very sheepish.
There’s a pause. An awkward silence. I fold my hands, trying to keep a straight face.
“So,” I begin, “I think we should really open up about what’s been making us drift apart and how we can get back on track.”
Dan shifts in his seat. “Right. Yeah.”
Another pause. He scratches his chin. Looks anywhere but at me.
Oh, this is going to be fun.