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’msweating, 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.
It’s one of those large, echoing halls filled with balloons, screaming children, and the scent of sugar and hand sanitiser. Sophie runs straight to her friends. Oscar finds a football in the corner and starts showing off. Ruby clings to me for the first ten minutes, then toddles toward the snacks table like she’s found paradise.
Dan and I hover near the wall with the other parents, trying to look sociable but both quietly counting down the minutes until it’s over.
He leans close to my ear. “I’ll give you a tenner if you let me sneak out and come back when the cake’s done.”
I snort. “Make it twenty and I’ll let you.”
We grin at each other, and for a second, it feels like old times, before kids, before exhaustion, before the constant hum of responsibility. Back when flirting came easy, not squeezed between nappy changes and Rugby drop-offs.
But as the party drags on, that tiny glow starts to dim. The noise, the sugar chaos, the relentless small talk all grind me down. Ruby spills juice all over her dress. Sophie argues withanother little girl about who gets to hold the balloon bouquet. Oscar cries because someone called his goal “lucky.”
By the time we bundle everyone back into the car hours later, my nerves are shot. The sound of children bickering in the back seat feels like sandpaper against my skull.
Dan tries to lighten the mood. “Well, that was fun.”
“Define fun,” I mutter.
He laughs quietly. “It’s over. That’s fun enough.”
I rest my head against the window, watching the sun sink low, painting the sky in soft streaks of pink and gold. Saturdays used to feel different. Now they’re just another kind of workday. The kind where no one gets paid and the boss never sleeps.
By the time we get home, it’s late afternoon. The house smells faintly of morning coffee and yesterday’s laundry. The kids scatter immediately, Oscar to his LEGO, Sophie to her dolls, Ruby to destroy whatever’s left of the living room.
Dan heads for the kitchen, kicking off his trainers. He opens the fridge and starts pulling out ingredients for dinner; chicken, peppers, onions. “Fajitas okay?”
“Perfect,” I say, though what I really want is to collapse face-first onto the sofa and not move until morning.
I hover in the doorway for a moment, watching him. His T-shirt clings to him, damp from the day, muscles moving under the fabric as he chops onions. His hair is that perfect kind of careless that makes him look younger. It’s ridiculous that after all these years, after all the arguments and sleep deprivation, he can still make my stomach flutter.
“You’re staring again” he teases without turning around.
“I’m not staring, I’m admiring” I say smiling.
“Fancy chopping some veg?” He asks.
“It depends” I say, stepping in and grabbing a chopping board. “How much bribery is involved?”
He smirks. “I could be persuaded to offer a back rub later.”
“Tempting.”
“Or something else.”
