**Diary Entry – 10th March**
Emily walked home from school in high spirits. Today, her class had collected money for flowers and a gift for their form teacher. Andrew had mentioned that women love roses—and he’d looked right at her while saying it. Her heart had fluttered at his gaze. Surely, it was a hint about his gift for her on Mother’s Day. The other girls would be green with envy.
He’d caught her eye the moment he first walked into class last term. His father had been transferred to the local army base, and Andrew carried himself with an easy confidence, as if he didn’t care what anyone thought. That drew Emily in—she always worried about how others saw her, terrified of making a fool of herself.
The lads respected him. He wasn’t the loudest, but even the teachers listened when he spoke.
Late February, but spring teased at the edges of winter: birds chirped at dawn, sunlight lingered, and the last stubborn icicles dripped from the eaves. Her chest ached with the promise of something bright and strange.
Then she pushed open the front door—and the shouting hit her. Again. Her good mood dissolved. Mum and Dad hadn’t always been like this. They’d taken holidays to Cornwall, spent Christmas Eve lighting sparklers in the garden. What if they divorced? Would any of that ever happen again?
Her mate Lucy’s mum had slit her wrists when her dad left. Lucy had sobbed through double maths for weeks. Another girl, Sophie, swore having divorced parents was brilliant—double the pocket money, double the gifts. But was happiness really in iPads and crisp tenners?
The yelling stopped. Emily tiptoed to the half-open kitchen door. Dad stood by the window, back turned. Mum sat at the table, face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking.
“Calm down,” Dad muttered. “Emily’ll be home soon. What d’you want me to do to make you believe me?” He turned—and saw her.
“How long have you been eavesdropping?” he snapped.
“Long enough,” she shot back.
“To understand what?” Mum lifted her tear-streaked face. Mascara smudged her cheeks, her nose was red. *Why can’t she see how pathetic she looks?* Emily thought bitterly.
“You’re getting divorced,” she blurted.
Dad’s jaw tightened.
“Did you even think about me? Who I’d live with? There’s three of us in this family—or had you forgotten? If you’re both so sick of each other, then I want new parents. I *hate* you!” Her voice cracked.
She whirled around, shoved her feet into trainers, and slammed the door behind her.
“Emily!” Mum’s cry cut off as the latch clicked.
She didn’t bother with the lift—pelted down the stairs instead. Outside, she yanked on gloves. Where to go? Not to a friend’s. None of them would get it.
She walked. The afternoon’s slush had frozen into jagged ruts by evening. After two bus stops, she ducked into a Tesco Express just to warm up. The smell of sausage rolls and fresh bread made her mouth water. Scrounging loose change from her coat pocket, she bought a pasty.
She’d barely taken a bite outside when someone called her name.
“Alright?” It was Jake, from the parallel form.
Emily, mouth full, could only nod.
He fished a water bottle from his gym bag. “Here. Don’t choke.”
She gulped it down. “Ta.”
“Your house is that way,” he said when she made to leave.
“Not your business.”
“It’s dark. Not safe. C’mon, walk you back.”
They trudged in silence at first, then talked about rugby trials, Mr. Thompson’s impossible algebra tests. At her street corner, she halted.
“This you? Don’t wanna go home? Parents being twats?” He smirked.
“They’re splitting up.”
“Ah. When my dad left, I ran off. Thought if they had to team up to find me, maybe they’d fix things. Shared grief and all.”
“And?”
“They did. For a bit. Still split later. Slept in a public loo till the coppers found me. Stank of piss for weeks.”
“And your dad now?”
“Married some posh bird from Surrey. Mum’s better off.” He shrugged. “Less screaming. Less—” He mimed a punch.
“You say it like it’s nothing.”
“What’s the point in crying? Doesn’t change it. Least it’s quiet now. Fancy a cuppa at mine? Warm up.”
“Your mum won’t mind?”
“Won’t even notice. Telly’s her life after eight.”
His room was a narrow rectangle plastered with F1 posters and a dog-eared *Lord of the Rings* paperback on the shelf. He brought tea and a bacon bap.
She woke past midnight, needing the loo. Jake, curled at the other end of the sofa, stirred when she nudged him.
“Don’t leave me out there,” she whispered in the dark hallway.
After, she said she’d go home.
“It’s half-two!”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Not a chance.” He dropped a shoehorn—*clang*.
“Quiet! You’ll wake your mum!”
“She’s on night shift.”
“Wait—you *lied*?”
“Would you’ve come if I said she wasn’t here?”
They crept through the silent streets. Inside her building, she turned to him. “Cheers.”
“Anytime.”
Her mum pounced the second the flat door opened. “We’ve rung every A&E in—”
Dad appeared, rumpled. “You alright?”
“Fine.” She brushed past. At her bedroom door, she paused. “G’night, Mum. Dad.”
She’d thought sleep impossible, but it swallowed her whole.
At breakfast, Mum asked, “Nothing to say?”
Dad was already gone.
“Are you?” Emily countered.
“If this is about the divorce—we’re not. For now.”
Mum sat opposite. Her eyes were puffy, hair a mess.
“Because of me? Don’t bother. Next time you row, I *will* leave.” (Jake’s words echoed: *They united to find me.*)
Mum fiddled with her toast. “Do I look bad?”
Emily sighed. “You’ve looked like this for five years. Get a haircut. Wear red lipstick. Maybe Dad wouldn’t lock himself in the loo texting his secretary.”
Mum flinched.
“You asked. And *you*—what’ve you become?”
“What?”
“A frump. Get a blowout. Buy a dress. I’m late.” She stood.
“That boy last night—?”
“Jake. From school. *Relax*.”
For days, her parents moved like ghosts—no fights, no words.
Then, days before Mother’s Day, Jake waited at the school gates.
“Here for me?”
“Wanted to check in.”
“Uh… ceasefire, I guess.”
He handed her a small box. “Open it later.”
Inside was a delicate silver necklace, a heart pendant. Andrew had ignored her, no flowers, no card—but somehow, she didn’t care.
Jake walked her home.
“Want to do something tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
Next morning, she fastened the necklace straight away.
Her parents huddled at the kitchen table, conspiratorial. Mum had taken herThey’d booked a family paintball day—including Jake.
