CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
EMMA
I wake to the sound of running feet pounding down the hallway. That frantic, unmistakable rhythm of small humans on a mission. A crash follows. Then a burst of giggles. The kind that’s half-innocent, half-terrified someone might actually be hurt.
For a moment, I keep my eyes closed, hoping maybe it’s a dream. The room is still dim, washed in that soft pre-morning light that seeps through the curtains. Then I feel it. A sudden thump on the mattress beside me and the weight of a small body launching itself into my ribs.
“Mum! Mum! We’re gonna be late for Rugby!”
Oscar’s voice is a jolt of pure energy. He’s practically vibrating, his hair sticking up in a dozen directions, cheeks flushed with excitement. It’s Saturday, which means Rugby practice which is his entire world right now, especially since Rugby superstar, Rory Bennett moved back to town.
Dan groans beside me, dragging an arm over his face like he’s shielding himself from the apocalypse. “What time is it?” he mumbles, voice muffled by the pillow.
“Time to get up, Dad!” Oscar announces, already bouncing like a pogo stick.
“Go back to bed, mate,” Dan tries weakly.
But Oscar is gone in a flash, sprinting out of the room and leaving the door wide open.
I can hear Sophie in the hallway, singing to herself.
Her little voice drifts through the house, full of made-up lyrics about rainbows and pyjamas.
Somewhere down the hall, a cupboard door slams, followed by Ruby’s tiny cry. She’s awake too.
I sigh, rolling toward Dan and brushing my fingers against his arm. “Your turn to get them dressed.”
He peeks at me from under his arm, lips twitching. “I did it last Saturday.”
I arch a brow. “And I got up with Ruby every night this week when she had nightmares.”
He exhales dramatically, the kind of sigh that says you win, then presses a quick kiss to my temple before dragging himself upright. “Fine. But I’m making you coffee first.”
Bless him. He knows that’s the key to keeping me semi-functional.
As he disappears toward the kitchen, I lie back for a moment, letting the morning sounds flood in.
The cartoon theme music from the living room, Sophie chattering to herself about which leotard to wear and the soft hum of the kettle starting up.
It’s chaos, yes, but it’s our chaos. A kind of symphony that only makes sense when you’ve lived in it long enough.
By the time I make it downstairs, Dan’s in the kitchen wearing joggers and a faded T-shirt, hair all rumpled, holding out a steaming mug like it’s a peace offering. “For you, my goddess.”
“Careful,” I say, taking it with a grin. “You’re dangerously close to earning a kiss.”
He leans in anyway, eyes glinting. “I like living on the edge.”
Before our lips can meet, Oscar barrels between us, holding up his shin pads. “Mum, look! I found both! That’s good luck, right?”
I laugh, ruffling his hair. “That’s great, baby. Now go put your boots on.”
He runs off, leaving one sock behind. I bend to pick it up just as Sophie twirls into the room, still in her unicorn pyjamas, her hair in a wild halo. She stops mid-spin. “Mum, can I wear lipstick to dance?”
Dan chokes on his coffee. “How old are you?”
“It’s pink lip balm,” she says, affronted. “It’s shiny.”
I glance at her, all earnest eyes and determination, and nod. “You can wear shiny lip balm. But only if you brush your teeth first.”
She squeals and darts away before I can change my mind.
I sip my coffee and look at Dan over the rim of my mug.
He’s already packing lunchboxes humming something that sounds suspiciously like Sweet Caroline.
Watching him, I feel that small flutter in my chest. The one that reminds me how much I love this man, even when we’re half-zombies running on caffeine and chaos.
“You just gonna stand there staring, or are you gonna help?” he teases, not looking up.
“I’m supervising,” I say, leaning against the counter. “You’re doing a fantastic job.”
He shoots me a look. “You could, I don’t know, pour cereal?”
I grin. “Or I could just keep watching you bend over. Your call.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re so naughty”.
“I’m tired,” I say, setting my mug down. “Tired people flirt weird.”
“Noted.”
Ruby toddles in then, clutching her favourite stuffed bunny by the ear, thumb in her mouth. Her hair is a tangle of curls and dreams. “Mummy up,” she says softly, reaching for me.
I scoop her up, breathing in that baby-shampoo scent that makes all the chaos worth it. She rests her head on my shoulder with a sigh, and for a second, time slows. These are the moments that will vanish too soon.
“Right,” Dan says, clapping his hands. “Boots, shin pads, snacks, let’s move, people.”
The next twenty minutes are a blur of missing shoes, spilled juice, arguments about who sits where in the car, and the discovery that Sophie’s dance bag has somehow swallowed a half-eaten apple. Typical Saturday. By the time we’re all in the car, I feel like I’ve run a marathon before 9 a.m.
Dan drives, one hand on the wheel, the other holding his travel mug.
The radio plays softly, a background hum to the steady stream of chatter from the back seat.
Oscar starts chatting about how his Rugby coach also coached Rory so obviously that means he’s going to be a superstar too.
Sophie sings off-key to the music. Ruby drops her dummy and immediately demands it back.
It’s chaos, but it’s a comfortable kind. Familiar. Us.
We drop Oscar at Rugby first. He sprints across the field, waving his arms like he’s greeting a stadium of fans. His coach calls something encouraging. Dan watches him with quiet pride, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“He’s getting good,” I say.
“Yeah,” Dan nods. “Got your coordination.”
I snort. “My coordination? You’ve seen me try to parallel park.”
He grins. “Okay, maybe mine.”
We share a look, one of those small, silent exchanges that carry more weight than words. The kind built from years of partnership, of knowing when to tease and when to just be.
From there it’s straight to Sophie’s dance class. She skips toward the studio, her shiny lip balm glinting in the sun, her tiny ballet bag bouncing against her back. She turns before going in, waving so dramatically it’s impossible not to laugh.
“Love you, my big girl,” I call.
“Love you, Mummy!” she shouts back.
Ruby claps like she understands the whole thing.
And then it’s quiet. Just me, Dan, and Ruby in the car, a rare sliver of peace.
Dan glances at me as we pull out of the car park. “Supermarket next?”
I groan. “If we must. We’re out of milk, bread, and apparently every single fruit that exists.”
“Fine,” he says. “But you’re getting the trolley this time.”
“Why me?”
“Because last time you vanished in the candle aisle for twenty minutes.”
“I was researching scents.”
“You were sniffing jars like a weirdo.”
“I call it aromatherapy.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You love it.”
“I do.”
The words slip out so naturally, so casually, that it catches me off guard for a second. But it’s there, that easy affection, the humour, the rhythm that’s ours. We might be exhausted, always running late, always juggling too much, but there’s still love tucked in between the chaos.
The supermarket is busier than usual. Ruby sits in the trolley seat, legs swinging, holding a packet of baby rice cakes like it’s treasure.
Dan pushes the trolley while I consult the shopping list on my phone. “Right. Milk, eggs, fruit, bread, snacks for the party...”
He cuts in, already steering toward the bakery. “And doughnuts. You can’t do a Saturday without doughnuts.”
“You say that like it’s the law.”
“It is.” He lifts a box of iced ones into the trolley and grins. “Parenting fuel.”
I roll my eyes but let it slide. He’s not wrong.
Ruby starts pointing to the bananas as we walk. Her chatter is so innocent that an older woman nearby smiles at her, then at us. “Busy morning?” she asks, with the knowing tone of someone who’s been there.
I laugh. “You could say that. Rugby, dance, now the weekly dash for survival essentials.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” she says kindly, before shuffling off down the aisle.
Dan leans toward me as she leaves. “People always say that. ‘Enjoy it while it lasts.’ As if we can enjoy it right now while we’re slowly dying in the cereal aisle.”
I smirk. “Maybe she means we’ll miss it when it’s quiet.”
“Quiet sounds like heaven.”
He says it lightly, but something about the way his voice dips makes me glance at him. There’s a shadow there, maybe just tiredness, maybe something heavier. Before I can ask, Ruby throws a banana on the floor, and the moment’s gone.
We weave through aisles in our usual rhythm: him tossing in things we don’t need (crisps, energy drinks, doughnuts), me trying to keep us on track (vegetables, toilet roll, actual food). It’s mundane and messy and yet, in a strange way, comforting. We’ve done this dance hundreds of times before.
When we finally reach the checkout, Ruby’s getting restless.
Dan distracts her by pulling funny faces while I unload the trolley.
The cashier gives us a polite smile that’s part amusement, part pity.
By the time we’re back in the car, I’m sweating, Ruby’s eating a bread roll, and Dan looks like he’s aged five years.
“Coffee?” he suggests hopefully.
I nod. “Please. And make it a large.”
He grins, starting the car. “See? This is why I married you. You understand caffeine diplomacy.”
We pop by Rose’s to grab coffees; his black, mine sugary and milky, and for a few precious minutes, there’s peace. Ruby hums to herself, the caffeine hits my bloodstream, and the chaos fades just enough for me to breathe.
But peace never lasts long.
Back to Rugby and Dance to pick the big kids up.
The birthday party is next.