God, she’s good.
“Daaaaaadddd,” Oscar groans, stomping in. “You’ve given me the trousers that are too small. Look.”
His socks are fully visible.
Triple fuck.
“Okay mate, you’re just going to have to wear them for today until I can get…”
“No, Mum already got bigger ones. They’re in my wardrobe. Second shelf. She said you’d forget.”
Silence. I walk upstairs. There they are.
I sit on the edge of his bed for a second. This is the stuff I just… didn’t see.
It never occurred to me that the kids grow in quiet increments. That shoes suddenly pinch. That trousers rise. That ingredients need buying before cooking days. That forms need signing before deadlines. That yellow days, world book days, dress down days, science days, bring-a-leaf days, just happen.
They don’t just happen. She makes them happen.
How does she carry all of that? How did I miss it?
The school run feels different without her beside me.
No shared eye-roll when Ruby insists on wearing a cape over her uniform. No whispered commentary about other parents. Just me gripping the steering wheel, thinking.
I’ve always worked hard. But I didn’t always see everything she was holding. And the truth is, it was easier not to see it. Because if I saw it properly, I’d have to admit she was carrying more than she should have been.
By evening, I’m tired. Not “long day at the office” tired. Bone tired. The kind where your brain is juggling invisible lists.
Homework.
Laundry.
Dinner.
Permission slips.
Ruby’s slight cough: is it something?
Oscar’s mood shift: is it something?
Sophie’s friendship drama: is it something?
This constant hum of vigilance.
It’s relentless.
And she has been living inside this hum for years.
Alone.
God.
My phone lights up with a very much welcomed Facetime call from her balcony.
She looks so beautiful with the city lights behind her, her hair swept back, her eyes bright.
She looks… alive.
