Daddys Been Outed
Emma burst into the hallway before Rachel even had a chance to meet her. Little boots stomped across the parquet, woolly hat askew, scarf trailing in her wake like shed shed it mid-sprint.
Mum, Mum, Im starving! It smelled of sausage rolls at Auntie Jeans downstairs, but we didnt go in. Dad said we hadnt time, but I wanted one!
Come here, darling. Rachel dropped to one knee and started on the childs toggles. Well, were having mushrooms and potatoes at home. I know you love mushrooms and potatoes.
I do. Emma buried her nose in Rachels hair. You smell nice today.
Is that your opinion, or Dads?
Emma giggled, slipped away and dashed into the lounge. Rachel stood up. Hugo appeared in the hallway, unzipping his coat, hanging it up without a glance.
How was it? she asked.
Fine. He tramped past her towards the kitchen. How much longer?
Twenty minutes.
She returned to the cooker. The frying pan sizzled reassuringly. The onions were caramelising just right, potatoes nearly done. She lifted the lid, tasted, added salt. It was already dim outside. October always insisted on early evenings, but she liked it liked coming back to a flat that glowed, smelling of dinner, Emma chatting away to her toys in another room.
She was forty-two. She didnt count the years with anxiety the way some women did, but she always knew: forty-two, wife, mum, deputy manager at a small lettings agency. Seven years married. Emma was six. A three-bedroom flat on the fifth floor in a quiet corner of Sheffield, birdsong in the morning. Not a perfect life but stable, solid, enough to feel the ground under your feet.
Hugo came into the kitchen, fetched some apple juice from the fridge, poured himself a glass. He stood staring out at the communal garden. Rachel watched him from the corner of her eye. He was forty-six now flecks of silver dusted his temples, laughter lines had settled at the corners of his eyes, which she used to call smile-crinkles. He was still tall, still broad, and he still used the same mens deodorant he always had, some Boots number called Victor, which over the years had become the smell of home itself.
Emma behaved? she asked again, just to hear his voice.
Yep.
Where did you go?
The park. Fed the ducks.
Shes been going on about those ducks since last weekend.
Well, there you are.
He placed his empty glass in the sink and walked out. Rachel watched his back. Something had been off lately. Hed been distant, but she wasnt allowing herself more than that realisation. Tiredness, work stress, autumn men get broody. Perfectly normal. She wasnt about to write a tragedy just because a man had a quiet spell.
She called everyone for tea.
Emma came charging into the kitchen first, clambered onto her chair and plonked her teddy, Mr Bear, at the table with the gravity reserved for her plush friends (Rachel had long ago given up objecting to this tradition).
Mr Bear wants potatoes too! Emma declared.
Mr Bear can wait, Rachel said, dishing up. You eat first.
Hugo sat, picked up his fork, gazed into his plate.
Dad, does that lady in the park like ducks too? Emma asked, offhand and airy, as children do when their minds hopping everywhere.
Rachel set the pan back on the hob.
What lady? she asked.
You know the one Daddy kissed.
The silence was so sharp, Rachel could hear the kitchen tap dripping. She turned around slowly. Hugo didnt look up.
Emma, she said, level and calm, tell me that again.
We were going to see the ducks, and Dad saw the lady, and they stood like this Emma gave an adult-hug demonstration with her little arms and Dad kissed her. I was feeding the ducks. Then we went home.
What was her name? Rachel had no idea why she even asked.
Dad called her Katie.
Rachel gripped the worktop. Not because she was about to faint, just something to hold on to.
All right, sweetheart. Why dont you take your dinner to your room? Just for today.
Really?
Really. And take Mr Bear.
Emma scooped up plate and bear and ran out, delighted. Rachel waited for the door to click shut.
Hugo sat there, head hung, food untouched.
Hugo.
Rachel
Dont. Just tell me if what she said is true.
He was silent for a long time. And in that time, Rachel found clarity. If it had been nothing, a misunderstanding, some random stranger, hed have said so straight away. Men who have nothing to hide, hide nothing.
Yes, he said at last.
She nodded. She removed his plate, stacked the washing up, covered the pan. Wiped her hands on the linen blue-checked tea towel hanging by the cooker, one shed bought with Emma at the Moor Market last year.
How long?
Rachel, please
How long?
Six months.
Six months. June. She remembered June. Theyd all gone to Scarborough in July. Emma saw the sea for the first time and loved it. Hugo had carried her on his shoulders. Rachel had snapped photos from the shore. He was smiling on those pictures.
Who is she?
A colleague its not important.
It is to me.
Rachel, can we talk like grownups? I get it, but
Is her name really Katie? Rachels voice was equal measures absurdity and pain.
He was silent. So yes, it was.
Rachel stepped out to the bedroom and closed the door. Not locked just closed. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked out at the dark, the streetlights, the rain trickling down the window rain that had started while theyd been eating.
She thought shed cry, but no tears came, only a strange, weighty ache where her heart used to be. Not pain not quite. Something bigger. Realisation.
After maybe half an hour, Hugo came in, stood just inside the door.
Rachel, can we talk?
Go ahead.
He sat in her mothers old armchair. Shed thought of chucking it out a hundred times; now, watching him in it, she knew she would.
I dont know where to start.
Start anywhere. My minds made up.
Its not how you think.
Hugo, youve been seeing another woman for six months. Do explain what Im misunderstanding here.
I didnt Im not in love. It was something else.
Enlighten me.
He rubbed his eyes. Classic Hugo: never knew how to express himself when flustered, always rubbed his eyes.
Im tired, Rachel. Not of you, not of Emma. Just tired. Every day, same old: work, home, work, home. I felt invisible. Like I was just the breadwinner, the dad. But Im still a person.
So am I, said Rachel softly. I get tired too. Feel like a human Post-it Note. But I dont go off seeking comfort with someone else.
I know.
So why did you?
She listened.
Rachel regarded him.
Ive been listening for seven years.
But you always know best, Rachel. You always have the answers. She just sat there. Quiet. I didnt have to explain myself.
So, you needed a woman who doesnt talk.
Not like that
How then?
He didnt reply. Rachel stood up, went to the window. Outside, the rain pelted harder; a car hissed past on the wet road. In the other room, Emma was murmuring to Mr Bear.
Does she know youre married?
Yes.
That you have a daughter?
Yes.
And she was fine with that.
Not a question. He said nothing.
Hugo, listen, Rachel spoke, slow and measured, sounding very much like the deputy manager she was at work. Im not going to shout, or beg you to tell me how could you. I get it. You made a choice not just once, but over and over, for six months. Thats not a mistake. Thats a decision.
I want to fix things
You cant.
Ill end it. I havent seen her in three weeks.
Three weeks? And no one knew?
I couldnt say anything.
So you werent going to, ever? If it wasnt for Emma and the ducks, Id never know. Youd just come back.
He didnt argue.
I think tomorrow you need to find somewhere else to stay, she said. Youve got John, or your folks in Devon. Your choice. Ill take Emma to school. Collect your things at the weekend.
Rachel, are you serious?
Completely.
You want a divorce?
Yes.
Even though Ive already called things off? Im telling you
Hugo. She looked at him with something so final that he stopped. Not because you stopped or didnt stop. Because you did it in the first place. For six months. For June. For that week by the sea with Emma while you were already for you sitting there at tea, thinking about someone else. Thats why.
He dropped his head.
I suppose I need a different Katie, she muttered, almost to herself. Isnt that how it works.
Its just a name, I swear
I know. Its justironic. Thats all.
But she didnt laugh.
That night, she lay on her side of the bed and listened to him fidgeting restlessly on his. Just before dawn, he slouched off to the kitchen she heard the fridge open, close. She watched the ceiling, thinking how soon shed have to explain to Emma. Something simple, fair, nothing to make Daddy the baddie. Kids should love both their parents. Shed already made herself this promise, stubbornly, despite the pain wedged in her chest.
In the morning, she got up at seven, woke Emma, got her dressed, made sandwiches, tied laces, found the missing glove under the hall bench. Hugo sat at the kitchen table, mug in hand, watching her and Emma. Emma said, Bye, Daddy! He replied, Bye, sausage, which was somehow the most painful thing Rachel had heard all morning. Because he was a good dad. That was the truth.
At after-school club, Miss Wilkins asked how things were. Rachel smiled and said Fine. Which wasnt true, but the truth wasnt ready to come out yet.
Work was meetings, contracts, a deluge of emails. After lunch, her boss, Mr Parker, a kindly gent who always brought Werthers Originals to team meetings, knocked on her door.
Rachel, are you all right? You look a bit faded.
Didnt sleep well, thats all.
Ah, autumn. No one ever sleeps well in autumn, he said, knowingly.
That evening she collected Emma on foot couldve driven, but didnt. Emma carried an armful of leaves shed found yellow, orange, even one nearly red.
Mum, is Daddy home?
No, pup. Dads staying with Uncle John for now.
Why?
Sometimes parents need a bit of space, darling. Grown-up thing.
Will he be back?
Yes, of course. Hell always be there for you.
Emma considered this.
All right, she said, handing over the brightest leaf. This is for you. Its the prettiest.
Rachel took it, holding it gently like something fragile.
Three months to file for divorce. Hugo didnt fight it. For the first two weeks, he kept loitering by the door, ringing, sending long, remorseful texts Rachel read, then put aside. He asked for a chance, claimed hed realised his mistake, couldnt understand himself. Rachel felt not anger, but bone-deep fatigue. Shed had every version of this conversation in her head a hundred times; nothing left to say.
She replied once. Briefly: Hugo, Im not angry. I just dont want to be your wife any more, and thats not the same thing. Please sort maintenance with your solicitor. Emma loves you and that wont change.
He stopped coming to the door. Paid the maintenance. Picked up Emma every Saturday Rachel handed her over in the hallway, gave the necessary details: spare socks in her bag, home by six, text if youre late. And that was it. No extra questions. She didnt want to know.
Winter dragged excruciatingly slow. Rachel later decided that the first winter after a breakup always crawls, because inside youre still rearranging yourself, even as on the outside youre fine: making breakfast, school runs, work, bedtime. You do it all correctly, but within theres some kind of heavy, silent process going on without a name.
She learned to fix the leaky tap. Easier than feared. Used to ask Hugo, even though hed be glued to the telly. Now, a YouTube video, a £1.30 washer and she did it herself. She stood there staring at the not-dripping tap, feeling something she later realised was pride.
Accounts had always been Hugos domain: spreadsheets, bills, groceries, savings. Now Rachel bought a cheap exercise book pink cover, bought with Emmas new sketch pads. Every evening shed note expenses, gradually learning where to scrimp, where not to, how money worked when it was just you and a six-year-old.
In February, she went back full-time. Before that, shed juggled part-time to be with Emma. Now she arranged with Mrs Thompson on the third floor, a kindly retired lady whod always offered help. Mrs Thompson took Emma three times a week and Rachel helped with shopping and pharmacy runs. A silent trade, well suited to both.
At work, she was given more responsibilities not more money, that came later, but the sense she could handle things by herself. Mr Parker was pleased. Told her shed always been his best number two but never gave herself enough freedom. Not true, Rachel thought shed just never considered she might need it.
There was someone else shed noticed for a while. Quietly, on the edge of things. Paul Knight from Lettings. Thirty-eight, divorced years ago, no kids. She knew this because, in a small office, everybody knows. Blonde hair, not tall, had a way of squinting thoughtfully. Spoke slowly, never interrupted, listened so well that people said more than they planned.
Theyd sometimes cross paths in the kitchen him pouring coffee, her microwaving soup. Small talk about work, minor gripes, the eternal vanished parking lines. Nothing earth-shattering.
In March, he brought an apple crumble to the office. Mum baked, but Ill never finish it alone. Rachel tried a slice. It was delicious.
Your mum bakes well, she said.
Best in the world, he replied, entirely un-ironic. Of course, Im biased!
Thats allowed.
Of course. He moved off, mug in hand.
She watched his retreating back and thought nothing at all. Just watched.
That spring, Rachel signed Emma up for after-school dance. Shed begged for months, but Hugo always said not now. Now there was no one to say that. Emma lined up in pink leotard, so awed by the instructor her concentration made Rachels chest ache.
She passed the time talking to another mum, Alicia, loud and laugh-prone with twins in a buggy. They soon became coffee regulars during classes. Alicia was nothing like Rachel: quick, noisy, irrepressible. But Rachel liked her.
You raising her alone? Alicia asked one day, with all the social tact of a traffic warden, but zero malice.
I am.
For long?
Since October.
Is it hard?
Rachel thought not what to answer, but actually considered.
Sometimes. Sometimes not. Sometimes its honestly easier.
Easier? Alicia grinned.
Well, no one blares football. No one leaves their socks everywhere. You do everything your way.
Alicia cracked up. Youre a trooper, Rachel. Most would be in pieces.
I was. November and December. Then I stopped. Not because it didnt hurt. But wailing gets nothing done, and theres still loads to do.
There was, of course, a mountain of it. Shed no idea how much family life hangs on invisible threadsnow all in one pair of hands. Calling the plumber, booking dentist, changing Emmas shoes when she outgrew them overnight, even though she didnt drive all her responsibility. Sorting out flat paperwork now Hugo was off it. Dividing up what had been theirs.
A young solicitor, Miss Harper, was brisk and practical. Rachel listened and jotted notes, not because she mistrusted Hugohe was fair enough in the divorcebut because, now, ignorance about her own life was off-limits.
On Saturdays, Hugo collected Emma. Sometimes Rachel saw him fleetingly in the lobby thinner, greyer. Once, in April, he lingered at the door.
Rachel, can I just
Emmas got her thermos. She likes it in the car. Bring it back, please.
Yeah, I was just going to say, its really overwith her.
I know.
You do?
Hugo, its… not important.
Not important? He stared at her.
Because for me, it changes nothing. I told youIm not cross. I dont want your old life back. Take care of yourself.
He was silent for a long time, then murmured, Youre different.
Yes, she agreed. Emma, Daddys waiting!
Emma bolted in, grabbed her coat, her fathers hand. And they left. Rachel closed the door, leant back against it for a beat, then busied herself with Saturday chores: windows, the wardrobe, or sometimes just sat with a book in the rare, delicious quiet shed discovered she could love.
She read again, something shed stopped in marriage not time, or always too tired, or just used to watching whatever Hugo wanted on TV. Now she took out books from the library, where Mrs Evans always had suggestions she started to trust. Classics, new novels, biographies. It surprised her: all those years, she hadnt missed reading. Now, it filled the space inside.
Summer arrived and felt entirely new. Last year they went to Cornwall; now she understood those photos, his sunny smile. This year, she took Emma to her own mums in a little town a couple of hours outside Chester, with a proper garden, blackcurrants Emma ate from the bush, and the neighbours moggy, a plump ginger called Tiddles, whom Emma snuck milk in a saucer.
For three days, Rachels mum asked nothing. Nursed, fed, let her sleep. On the fourth, mugs of tea outside at dusk, with Emma tucked up in bed:
How are you, love?
Better, Rachel said truthfully.
I can tell.
Was hard at first, Mum. I didnt say, so you wouldnt fret.
I worried anyway.
I know. Rachel squeezed her hand. But really, Im steadier now. Not greatjust managing. Thatll do.
And Emma?
Shes fine. She loves him, still sees him. I dont get in the way. Shes happy, considering.
And you? Is it lonely?
Some nights. Wouldnt mind a human about sometimes. Not Hugo necessarily. Just company. But then Emma needs something, or I pick up a novel, or it just passes.
Youre wonderful, you know.
I think Im just out of options.
Thats what wonderful means, her mum replied.
In the autumn, a year from that fateful Friday and the ducks, Rachel woke one morning to feel something different. She lay there a while, trying to pinpoint what. Then, it clicked: she hadnt thought of it. That Friday. The potatoes and mushrooms. The Daddy kissed the lady. A whole year, that date had had a weight of its own, and now it was just gone.
Maybe she was done remembering. Or maybe things had actually shifted.
Emma started Year Two that September. Uniform, satchel (a sturdy Condor took ages to choose), pencil cases, rulers, PVC book covers. On the first day, Hugo joined them. They stood together, taking photos of Emma carefully arranging her bouquet of chrysanthemums, newly minted as a big school girl. Rachel sometimes caught him glancing at her, but she didnt glance back.
Afterwards, he came over.
Thanks for inviting me.
Shes your daughter.
You look well.
Hugo, she said, tiredly but without bitterness. Dont.
I just
I know. But dont. Emma, say bye to your dad. We have to go.
Emma hugged him, waved, grabbed Rachels hand. They left. Rachel didnt look over her shoulder.
At work, in October, she finally got her pay-rise official, signed in her contract. Mr Parker called her in, told her. She thanked him politely, stepped out and allowed herself a proper smile in the corridor. Broad and real.
Paul Knight was striding by with a folder, caught her smile, paused.
Good news?
Yeah. Got a pay-rise.
Congratulations. He grinned, a proper lopsided one.
Thanks. She nodded and walked on.
They started talking a bit more not by design, just in passing. Kitchen, corridor, occasionally, hed pop by with a question and stay to chat about non-work things. A book. Emmas adjustment to school. She told him about dance class; he said hed played chess as a kid and reckoned both are ways of thinking ahead.
Dancing too? she asked, surprised.
Absolutely. Predicting your partners next move.
At the moment, Emmas just trying not to trip over her own feet.
Thats a vital life skill, he said, very seriously, and made her laugh.
It was good. Simple. No strings, no pressure. She didnt see it as something more. Just a person she enjoyed talking to. You dont have to leap straight into a new story after a divorce. Shed decided that for herself.
November was cold. Emma brought home a seasonal sniffle spent a week with a dodgy temperature, endless cartoons, ginger tea. Rachel worked from home, laptop on the kitchen table, popping up to check her daughters forehead. Emma wasnt a whingey patient; she just lay there, quiet, books in bed, requesting stories.
Mum, read about the wizard again.
Weve already read him three times today.
One more time.
Emma.
Pleeease.
Rachel read it: a wizard in a high tower, talks to birds, loses his hat, spends half the book looking for it. Emma listened, eyes shut, not asleep, just listening. Rachel watched her freckled nose, the ginger lashes Emma had from Hugo, her lopsided fringe. Her husband had hurt her, but Emma stayed hers. That much couldnt be taken.
When Emma was finally better, she drew the wizard with his new hat and gave the picture to Rachel, who put it on the fridge beside nursery doodlesa growing gallery, each a small proof life trundles on, colours and all.
December brought a strange calm. Not joy, not excitement, just a steady contentment. She and Emma decorated a real treeone that the neighbour, young Tom downstairs, carried up for them. It smelled of resin and winter. Emma hung old baubles, working through each with the reverence of a museum curator.
This ones ancient half the paints off.
Thats because I scribbled on it as a kid. Its Grandmas.
You were little once?!
Yes.
Did you have a bear too?
No, a doll. Her name was Polly.
Where is she?
In Grandmas cupboard. Want to see her next summer?
Yes! Emma carefully hung the faded bauble. Mummy, does Father Christmas know were just the two of us now?
Rachel hesitated.
He knows. He knows everything.
So, will there be presents for just us two?
Yes. And a parcel for Daddy at his new place.
Emma nodded, accepting this. Will we have enough presents?
Well have enough, love. Well have enough.
Rachel meant it. Not because youre supposed to tell children thatbut because, for the first time, she really felt it. Not because things were suddenly easy, but because she knew she could cope now, and coping had stopped feeling impossible.
They saw in the New Year together. Emma fell asleep under a tartan blanket at half past eleven. Rachel sat beside her, TV burbling fireworks in the background, clutching a glass of apple juice at midnight, looking out as distant rockets blurred against the sky.
Happy New Year, she whispered, to herself. Just for herself.
January and February rolled by. Rachel realised shed stopped counting days the tally of weeks since then. Days were just days. Monday, Tuesday. School. Work. Weekends.
In March, something flowering and white bloomed outside her office window. Apple? Cherry? She didnt know. But she found herself standing by the window, watching it. Paul once caught her looking.
Enjoying it?
Its pretty.
Every year, I make a point of looking at that tree. Been there twenty years, apparently.
How long have you worked here?
Eight years. You?
Six.
And weve never talked about the tree. He grinned.
Probably never looked at it at the same time.
Probably. By the way, Paul said, I see you sometimes at the café on Main Road?
Occasionally.
Shall we have lunch together sometime if youd like?
She looked at him, steady, studying.
Id like that.
They lunched on Wednesday. Then again on Friday. Conversation came easy both of them with stories theyd never shared. He spoke briefly about his divorceno details, no self-pity. The first years rough. Gets clearer after that. He said it the way you talk about places youve actually visited.
Do you have children? she asked.
No. Wasnt to be. He paused. Your daughters Emma, isnt she?
She is. Seven. Year Two.
Hows she going?
Fine. Slow reader but with expression! Dancing, drawing wizards.
Wizards?
Its a long story.
Id like to hear it.
So she told him. About the book, the illness, the drawing pinned on the fridge. He listened quietly, no exclamations, just nodded. It was nice.
April brought real warmth. Emma stopped wearing her hat; Rachel carried on reminding her, knowing shed be ignored. She started walking home from work againhalf an hour to herself, time to think or not think, spot changes: a florist replacing the old chemist, the ailing tree finally gone from outside the surgery, kids chalking the pavement with hopscotch in the next street.
Life happened. Not the one she imagined at the altar, thinking everything was sorted, but slowly, she realised, nothing is ever sorted. Arranging your life takes daily effort, and if it never ends, that means you can always change something. Start afresh, whenever.
In May, Alicia from dance called: Rachel, all the parents are picnicking in the park on Sunday. You and Emma coming?
Count us in.
It was the big park with a pond and ducks. Emma, armed with scraps of bread, rushed to the water. Rachel watched her, remembering the October of last year. The same ducks. Before, it was the end of something. Now, it was just a Sunday in MayEmma thrilled to the ducks, mums chatting with coffee flasks, nobody in any hurry.
Hugo phoned that evening, after Emma was in bed.
Rachel, about summer holidays Id like to take Emma for two weeks in July to my parents. She loves it there.
No problem. Lets sort the dates.
Okay Pause. And how are you?
Im fine. I really am.
Are you really fine?
Hugo, Im not on trial. But yes.
Im glad.
Good. Text about dates, all right? Good night.
She set her phone aside. Sat a while longer, not heavy, not furiousjust still.
Then she picked up a book. Read. Went to bed.
June was kind. Emma finished Year Twosmart in new white blouse, ribbons, presenting the annual bouquet to Mrs Browning. Rachel was filming, Hugo was there toothese days they barely exchanged more than practicalities, which was fine. For Emma, they could do togetherness when it mattered.
Early June, Paul messagedby then, theyd swapped numbers, out of office necessity at first. Want to ask something not work-related. Hope thats okay. She replied, Go ahead.
He said hed like to see more of her no rush, no pressure, just honestly. He enjoyed talking to her, hoped perhaps to see her outside work, if she was willing.
Rachel read it twice. Three times.
She replied: Lets chat.
The summer brought different things. Some days good, some ordinary. Emma went with Hugo to Devona fortnight where Rachel was alone for the first time in a year. She spent the first days blitzing the flat with the sort of vigour one reserves for battle. Then she faced the silencestrange, huge. She read two entire books in three days, phoned her mum, met Paul for a film. Light comedythey laughed at the same moments. Afterwards, they strolled; he told her about his mum, the one with the unstoppable apple crumble, living outside Reading, told her he liked hiking and had ambitions for the Lake District.
Ever been? he asked.
No. Always meant to.
Maybe, one day, well go.
Easy. No pressure. A suggestion, not a promise. Rachel said nothing. Just walked beside him.
When Emma returned, glowing with sun and stories about Grandad and the worlds cleverest cat Boris, who opens the fridge!, Rachel hugged her hard, nose in Emmas sun-warmed hair.
So glad youre home.
Me too. Then, as ever, the next demand: Mum, Im starving!
August passed quietly. They visited Rachels mum; Emma ate currants, Rachel tackled mums attic. They found an old box of Rachels photos even the battered old Polly doll. Emma pronounced her OK, but Mr Bear superior.
Tell Polly shes not worse, Rachel suggested.
You know shes not real, Mum.
Remember when Mr Bear talked?
Emma considered, whispered to Polly, nodded. She understands.
Mum beamed at them both.
September. Year Three. Uniform, satchel, chrysanthemums. Again, Hugo turned up, now with a bunch for the teacher and one just for Emmaher delight was plain. Rachel watched and felt, faintly, that such scenes would have once hurt. Now it was simple: Emma happy, both parents there. That was enough.
Afterwards, Paul messaged: How was Day One?
Good. Emma likes her new teacher.
And you?
Me too.
Im glad.
Small, warm messages.
October arrived: over a year had ticked past. That October Friday was just another date. Rachel never forgot it, but she no longer lived with the weight of it every day.
One evening, as Emma did her homework at the kitchen table and Rachel stirred the soup, her daughter piped up:
Mum, are you going to get married again?
Rachel stirred the pot.
I havent really thought about it. Why?
Vickys mum got married again. Now Vickys got a new dadnot a real one, but a nice one.
And what does Vicky think of that?
She likes him. Hes teaching her to ride a bike.
Thats good.
Mum, if you get married again, will he teach me to ride a bike?
I dont know if I will, Emma.
But if you did?
Well, Id try to pick someone who can ride a bike.
Emma laughed and went back to her writing. Rachel thought of her daughters questions, the ones she’d not dared to ask herself. Perhaps she should.
She didnt know what came next, whether she wanted anyone new, or if shed simply become fine on her own. She knew she liked Paul it was all gentle, unhurried, nothing like the flare and spark shed had as a girl. Maybe that was better. Maybe quiet and steady was its own version of real.
She was in no rush.
A rare sunny Saturday in October, Rachel put on her coat, wound Emmas scarf round her neck, and out they went to the parkthe same one, pond and all. Emma brought a baguette, bought specially.
Remember last time we were here?
Yes. We fed the ducks and had ice cream, except my ice cream was cold.
Ice cream always is.
But you can have it in summer. Not now, though right?
Its a tad chilly for it.
A tad. No great regret.
They shuffled through leaves, Emma intent on maximum rustling. The pond glittered, ducks expecting crumbs.
Lets feed them, then well go on the swings! Emma said.
Good plan.
Standing by the water, Emma lobbed pieces of bread. Ducks jostled, chattered and squabbled. Emma cackled.
That ones greedy shes had three bits!
Shes got quick beak, Rachel replied.
So have I!
I know.
Rachels phone buzzed in her pocket. Paul.
She looked at the screen for a beat. Sun in her back, Emma shrieking at ducks, orange leaves everywhere so alive she grinned.
She answered.
Hi, she said.
Hello. Am I interrupting?
No, were feeding ducks at the park.
I can call another time
No, go on. Emmall cope for a minute.
I was just wondering He paused. Rachel, I get it if its too soon, youve got your world and all that but Id really like toto see you. Not just by chance. Properly. If youd want that.
Emma glanced over. Mum, whos that? Paul from work?
Thats right. Say hi.
Hi! Then, more bread.
Rachel looked at her daughter, the ducks, golden leaves on water. She thought of last Octoberwhat shed believed was an ending. Turned out, it was just something else. Not the dream of a grand new love story. Just the next bit of her life. Which hadnt stopped, or even really paused.
Perfect families dont exist she knew that now, not as a platitude, but carved deep. No perfect people, no perfect stories, no guarantees. Theres just the everyday what you touch, what you hold, who you walk with.
Yes, Rachel said into the phone.
Yes?
Id like that. Properly. Lets figure it out.
She could hear his smile.
Good.
Emma turned, all bread gone, hands empty.
Mum, Ive finished! The ducks ate it all!
Good job, ducks.
Swings now?
Swings now, said Rachel, slipping away her phone.
She took her daughters hand, and together they walked through the shining leaves, with the autumn sun lighting the way.
