And for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like we’re standing on opposite sides of something.
It feels like we’re standing at the edge of it.
“Don’t forget,” he says softly.
“The milk?”
He gives me that half-smile. “Us.”
Then he’s out the door.
And I’m standing in the kitchen, heart beating just a little faster than it was five minutes ago.
Maybe it’s not fireworks. Maybe it’s just milk. But right now? Milk feels like a beginning.
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.
