I pinch the bridge of my nose so hard I’m surprised I don’t physically remove it from my face. Dan clears his throat and sits up like he’s about to referee a championship fight.
“Okay,” he says, far too calmly. “We can handle this.”
We absolutely do not handle this.
The spaceship is fished out. Oscar is dramatically devastated, acting like Sophie has thrown his hopes and dreams into sewage. Sophie remains unimpressed. And just as we think it’s over, Ruby toddles in with her teddy raised like a victory flag. Shehas somehow managed to draw on her entire left leg with a blue marker.
It definitely was a mistake to graduate her to a big girl bed this early. In her cot, sorry, cage, at least the chaos stayed contained.
By the time the argument is defused and everyone is dressed, I’m exhausted and it’s not even 8 a.m. Dan and I exchange a look over the kitchen counter like two soldiers who have survived an ambush.
So much for training wheels.
Still…
Things do feel different.
Lighter, somehow. Like the air between us isn’t so brittle. Like we’re not walking around braced for impact.
I notice it properly when I’m pulling on my coat.
I’ve got a spring in my step.
A small one, but it’s there.
As I pass Dan in the hallway to grab the kids’ bags, I don’t even think. I just do it.
A quick, cheeky squeeze of his bum.
He jumps like I’ve electrocuted him, then grins, and that familiar spark flashes in his eyes.
“Oi,” he says, amused.
I smirk. “Couldn’t resist.”
And just like that, it feels… easy.
Not fixed. Not magically healed.
But easy.
We herd the kids out the door. Dan stays behind for work, and I load everyone into the car. Today, though, there’s something waiting for me on the other side of the school run, something that feels almost indulgent.
I’m heading to Clara’s.
After drop-off, I drive across town feeling quietly triumphant. Our youngest kids are both in part-time preschool now, and bysome miracle of scheduling, Clara and I have one sacred day a week where our child-free hours align. Three precious hours. No toddlers climbing on us. No snacks to distribute. No one shouting “Mum!” like it’s an emergency every time they breathe.
There is truly nothing more difficult than meeting up with mum friends. It’s like organising a summit between world leaders. Diaries. Nap schedules. Childcare. Illness. Work commitments. The stars have to align perfectly.
But today is the day.
Clara’s house sits on the other side of Oakwood. It isn’t a cottage like mine, but it has the same unmistakable energy, you can tell within seconds that children live here. Shoes piled by the door. A rogue Paw Patrol figurine abandoned on the hallway table. Fingerprints on the glass that no one has the energy to clean properly.
It feels real. Lived in. Warm.
Clara answers the door mid-sentence, already talking before she’s even fully opened it. “Emma! Come in, come in, sorry about the mess. I was about to tidy and then realised… why bother?”
I laugh, stepping inside. “I feel deeply seen.”
