“What if Mum and Dad really do split up?” The terrible thought twisted Jack’s stomach into knots, and tears pricked at his eyes.
The three friends walked home from school, the spring sun glaring in their faces. They jostled and teased each other, laughing as they went. At Tom’s house, they stopped.
“Coming out on bikes tonight? Me and Ben had a proper laugh racing through the park yesterday,” Tom said, nudging Jack in the ribs.
Jack scowled. He’d been begging his dad to bring his bike up from the shed for weeks, but there was always an excuse—late shifts, forgotten promises, weekend chores piling up.
“Well?” Tom shoved his shoulder.
“Dunno. Bike’s still in the shed. If Dad gets back early…”
“Why can’t you just grab it yourself? Whatever, we’ll be at the park by seven. Don’t chicken out.” Tom held up his hand, and they smacked it in turn before Ben peeled off at the next block.
Jack trudged on, kicking a stray pebble. *Maybe I could find the shed key.* Dad only used it in winter for the car. He probably didn’t even carry it on him.
Inside, Jack dumped his bag and tore through the kitchen drawers. No key. Mum kept odds and ends in the cabinet, but the little hook was empty. He searched half-heartedly before giving up. Homework first—Mum wouldn’t hand over the key if he hadn’t done it.
An hour and a half later, Jack sat back, stunned. Normally maths dragged on forever. The front door clicked. “Mum!” He bolted into the hall.
“Hi, love,” she sighed, brushing past him with shopping bags. Jack trailed her into the kitchen, watching as she unpacked groceries.
“You left your pasta. Just had toast again, didn’t you? Put this away.” She tossed him a bag of rice.
“Mum—where’s the shed key?”
“Why?”
“Need my bike.”
She slammed the fridge shut. “Homework done?”
“Yes! Check if you want.”
“The key…” Her gaze drifted absently around the room. “No idea. Wait for your dad.”
“What, till midnight?” Jack snapped. “Everyone else has been riding for ages. Why’d it have to go in the shed? Could’ve left it on the balcony. You and Dad’ll just start shouting anyway. Sick of it.” He stormed off, slamming his bedroom door.
Lately, Dad was never home. Every night, the same row boiled over—voices spitting that awful word, *divorce*. Jack couldn’t picture it. Sure, Dad barely asked about school anymore. That one time he’d been home early, he’d mumbled, *How’s class?* but his eyes glazed over before Jack could finish.
Mum had leapt in—*You don’t care, do you? He needs you now—*
Jack had fled, pressing headphones over the yelling.
Tom’s dad took him fishing. Ben’s family went on weekend drives. Jack exhaled sharply, tossing his book aside unread.
The door creaked open. Mum perched on the bed’s edge, reaching to ruffle his hair. Jack jerked away.
“Found the key,” she said quietly. “If you’ve done your work…”
“I *told* you I did!”
“All right. Get your coat.”
Jack sprang up, nearly tripping as he yanked on his hoodie.
“Stay off the roads. Pavement or the park only,” Mum warned as they left.
The shed stood five minutes away, its padlock rusted stiff. Jack wrenched it open, the metal door shrieking on its hinges.
“Told your dad to oil these,” Mum muttered. The bare bulb flickered on, revealing shelves crammed with junk—tools, old chairs, a battered workbench. Jack spotted his bike hanging high on the wall.
“Grab the stool,” Mum said.
It wobbled dangerously as he climbed.
“Hold still—” She clutched his legs.
“You’re not helping! Just steady the stool.” The words came out sharp—just like Dad.
The bike resisted, too heavy to lift free.
“Let me—”
“*I’ve got it!*” Jack shoved upward. The stool lurched.
“Mum—*now!*”
She caught the bike just as it slipped. Jack jumped down, dusting his hands triumphantly.
“Tires need pumping,” Mum said. “See if the pump’s here.”
Rifling through tools, Jack came up empty.
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll borrow Tom’s.”
Mum’s phone rang. “Your dad,” she said flatly, answering. “We’re at the shed… Jack wanted his bike. *You’re* home early? How unexpected.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. A pause. “Oh, *now* you remember him?… Fine. Where’s the pump?” Another silence. She hung up, scowling.
“He’s forgotten. Shocker. He’s coming.” She sank onto the rickety stool. “You *did* do your homework, right? Exams are—”
The door banged open. Dad stood there, silhouetted by daylight.
“Did it myself!” Jack crowed, rushing over. “Dad, the tires—”
Then he stopped. Mum wasn’t looking at Dad. Dad wasn’t looking at Mum. The air turned thick, icy despite the shed’s stuffy heat.
Jack watched Dad hunt for the pump, stomach churning. *What if they really do split up?* His throat tightened.
Once, he’d seen a film where kids locked their divorcing parents in a basement—forced them to make up.
The idea sparked.
“Where’re you going?” Mum called as Jack sidled toward the door.
“Check if Mr. next door has a pump.”
Outside, he unhooked the padlock, yanked the door shut, and clicked it closed.
“Jack? *Open this now!*” Mum’s fists thudded against the metal.
“*Enough jokes!*” Dad’s voice boomed.
Jack pressed his back to the door, key digging into his palm.
Inside, the yelling surged—*This is your fault! You’re never here—*
He paced the concrete, phone buzzing—Tom. Ignored.
What if Dad *had* someone else? Jack remembered lazy Sundays, Mum and Dad laughing over breakfast. How long ago was that?
Silence fell inside.
“Jack.” Dad’s voice, calmer now. “Open up.”
“Not till you stop fighting. I *hate* it. Just *talk*!” His voice cracked. He kicked the door, hard.
No answer.
Jack wandered the estate, wiping his cheeks. Later, he trudged home, flicked on the telly, lost in some film until dark jolted him awake.
*The shed.*
He ran, heart pounding. No sounds inside. Hands shaking, he ripped the padlock off.
Mum’s head rested on Dad’s shoulder. They didn’t move.
“You okay?” Jack panted.
Dad shifted. “Up you get. Punishment’s over.” He stretched, nodding at the bike. “Pumped the tires. Starving.”
Mum stood, smoothing her jeans. “We’re not done with *you*.”
“Ought to wallop you,” Dad added—but he was looking at Mum.
And *smiling*.
Jack gaped.
Dad locked the shed, arm slung around Mum as they walked home. Jack wheeled his bike, stealing glances.
“Lovely evening,” Dad mused. “Almost summer. Fancy that trip to the Lakes for the bank holiday? Paul’s been asking.”
“Yes.” Mum’s reply was light. “Been ages since we did anything.”
Jack’s chest swelled. No eyeroll. No *As if you’d bother*.
At home, Mum reheated dinner while Dad ate. The kitchen hummed with quiet, easy chatter.
Jack studied them, hopeful.
Dad caught his eye, dangling the shed key. “This goes somewhere *you* won’t find it.” He pocketed it, grinning.
Warmth spread through Jack—Christmas-morning joy, the hush before tearing into presents.
Maybe this year *would* be better.
