“But what if Mum and Dad really do get divorced?” The terrible thought twisted Tom’s stomach and made him want to cry.
The three friends walked home from school under the bright spring sun, nudging each other and laughing. They stopped outside Harry’s house.
“Coming out on your bike later? Dan and I had a proper good ride through the park yesterday,” Harry said.
Tom frowned. He’d been begging his dad to fetch his bike from the garage for ages, but there was never time. Either his father came home late from work when it was already dark, or he promised to do it at the weekend—only to forget or make excuses.
“You coming or what?” Harry gave Tom a shove.
“Dunno. Bike’s still in the garage. If Dad gets back early—”
“Can’t you just get it yourself? Alright, we’ll be at the park by seven. Don’t be late.” Harry held out his palm, and they all slapped it in turn.
At the next turning, Tom said goodbye to Dan. Maybe he *should* look for the garage key. His dad only used the garage in winter—there was no way he carried the key around. Heart pounding, Tom hurried home. He lived the farthest away.
Inside, he changed and started searching. But the garage key wasn’t in the drawer where his parents usually kept odd bits. He rummaged a while longer before giving up and turning to his homework. Mum would be back soon—he’d ask her then. But if he didn’t finish his work, she’d never hand it over.
To his own surprise, he was done in an hour and a half. Usually, it took twice as long. The front door clicked. “Mum!” Tom bolted into the hallway.
“Hello,” she said tiredly, carrying shopping bags into the kitchen. He followed. As she unpacked, she frowned at his uneaten dinner. “You had sandwiches *again*? Put this away properly.” She handed him a packet of rice.
“Mum, where’s the garage key?”
“Why?”
“I need my bike.”
“Homework done?” She shut the fridge and fixed him with a look.
“Yeah—check if you want.”
“The key…” She glanced around vaguely. “Can’t remember. Wait for your father—he’ll know.”
“When? Midnight?” Tom snapped. “My mates’ve been riding for ages. Why’d he even have to shove it in there? Could’ve left it on the balcony. When *he* gets home, you won’t care anyway—too busy rowing. I’m sick of it.” His shoulders slumped as he realised today’s ride wasn’t happening. He stormed off, slamming his bedroom door behind him.
Lately, Dad was always working late. Him and Mum argued every day, shouting words like *divorce* so often Tom could barely stand it.
He couldn’t imagine them splitting up. Sure, Dad hardly asked about school anymore—they hadn’t gone out as a family in ages. Once, his father had come home early. Over dinner, he’d asked how Tom was getting on. Tom had started eagerly—only to stop when he noticed Dad’s distant stare. He wasn’t listening.
Then Mum had started—how Dad didn’t care, how Tom needed his guidance *now*, at his age—until Tom had shut himself in his room, trying not to hear. But how could he *not* hear when they were screaming at each other?
Harry’s dad took him fishing and to football matches. Dan was always off on family trips. Tom sighed.
Lounging on his bed, he held a book but never turned a page. Mum came in and sat beside him, reaching to ruffle his hair. He jerked away, and she dropped her hand.
“I found the garage key. If you’ve done your homework—”
“I *told* you I did!”
“Alright, get your coat. We’ll go together.”
Tom tossed the book aside, yanked on a jumper, and grinned. “Ready!”
“Promise me you won’t ride on the road. Stick to the park or pavements,” Mum said as they left.
The garage was just down the street. The rusty lock squeaked as Tom forced it open.
“Honestly, I’ve told him a hundred times to oil those hinges,” Mum muttered, stepping inside. A bare bulb flickered on. The garage was packed—tools, boxes, an old table. Tom spotted his bike hanging high on the wall.
“You’ll need a stool.”
The wobbly stool tilted dangerously as he climbed up. “Mum, just hold it steady!” He pushed the bike upwards—nearly dropping it before she caught it.
“The tyres are flat,” Mum said. “We’ll need the pump.”
Tom searched the shelves. “Can’t find it. Doesn’t matter—I’ll borrow Harry’s.”
Then Mum’s phone rang. “Your dad,” she said, pressing it to her ear. “We’re at the garage—Tom wanted his bike. You’re home *early*? What’s the occasion?” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “Oh, *now* it matters. He’s been asking for weeks… Well, do you remember where the pump is? No? Brilliant.” She hung up. “He’s coming. Fancy waiting?” She perched on the stool.
Tom fidgeted. Then the door flew open—Dad stood there.
“I got the bike down myself!” Tom babbled. “The tyres need pumping—we couldn’t find—” He trailed off. Mum was staring at the floor. Dad wouldn’t look at her. They were strangers again. The happy feeling drained away, replaced by a cold dread.
*What if they* do *split up?* His chest tightened.
Once, he’d seen a film where kids locked their quarrelling parents in a basement to force them to make up. Tom had thought about it a lot. And now—this was his chance.
“Where are you going?” Mum called as he headed for the door.
“Seeing if Mr. Carter’s in—maybe he’s got a pump.” Outside, Tom unhooked the padlock, yanked the door shut, and snapped it closed. His hands shook.
Inside, fists pounded. “Tom, open this door NOW!” Mum shrieked.
“Leave it—he’ll come back,” Dad said wearily.
Tom walked in circles, ignoring a call from Harry. He didn’t want to talk—just wanted Dad to notice him again. Once, he’d worn Dad’s jumper for hours, refusing to let Mum wash it—just to keep the smell of him.
Dusk fell before Tom returned. Silence. Hands trembling, he unlocked the door.
Mum and Dad were at the table—*her head on his shoulder*. They didn’t even glare at him.
“You alright?” Tom panted.
Dad stretched. “Hungry. Found the pump—tyres are done. Let’s go home.”
Tom stared. Were they… *fine* now?
“We’ll talk about *this* later,” Mum said, but she was smiling at Dad.
They walked back together—Dad’s arm around Mum, Tom wheeling his bike, heart lighter than it had been in months.
“Lovely evening,” Dad said. “Almost summer. What about going to Paul’s cottage for the bank holiday? He’s been asking.”
Mum nodded. “We haven’t done anything as a family in years.”
Tom nearly laughed. No eye-roll, no *”You really think that’ll happen?”*
At home, Mum reheated dinner while he sipped tea. The air was calm—no shouting.
For how long? Didn’t matter. He knew what to do now.
Dad caught his eye. “Garage key’s going somewhere *safe*. Just in case.” He tucked it away, smirking.
Tom grinned back. It felt like Christmas morning—that quiet hope before tearing into presents. Like something *good* was coming.
