**Diary Entry**
I came home from school in high spirits today. In class, we’d been collecting money for flowers and a gift for our form teacher. Andrew had mentioned that women love roses, and when he said it, his eyes lingered just a second longer—like he meant it for me. My heart fluttered. Maybe he was hinting at a gift for International Women’s Day. The girls would be green with envy.
I’d fancied him since he first walked into class last year. His dad had been transferred to the military base nearby, and Andrew carried himself like he didn’t care what anyone thought. That confidence drew me in. I was always so worried about saying the wrong thing, looking foolish. The lads respected him straightaway. Even the teachers listened when he spoke.
Late February, but spring was whispering its arrival—birds singing at dawn, sunlight breaking through the clouds, icicles dripping from the rooftops. My chest ached with the promise of something magical.
Then I opened the door to shouting. Again. My good mood shattered. They used to be happy—trips to the seaside, New Year’s fireworks in the back garden. What if they divorced? Would any of that ever happen again? Nina’s mum had slit her wrists when her dad left. She cried through lessons for weeks. Sonia reckoned divorced parents were better—double the gifts, double the money. But was that really happiness?
The yelling stopped. I tiptoed to the kitchen door, cracked open. Dad stood by the window, back turned. Mum slumped at the table, face in her hands, shoulders shaking.
“Calm down. Daisy will be home soon,” Dad said, still facing the glass. “What do I have to do to make you believe me?” Then he turned and saw me.
“How long have you been eavesdropping?” he snapped.
“Long enough,” I shot back.
“Long enough for what?” Mum lifted her face. Puffy eyes, smeared mascara. Why couldn’t she see how awful she looked? How was that supposed to keep him?
“You’re getting divorced.” The words tumbled out.
Dad scowled but said nothing.
“Did you even think about me? Who do I live with? There are three of us—or does my opinion not matter? I don’t want to *choose*—I want *both* of you!” My voice cracked. “If you’re sick of each other, then fine—I want new parents too. I hate you! Both of you!”
I spun on my heel, grabbed my coat, and slammed the door behind me. Mum’s cry cut off mid-air.
No lift. I took the stairs two at a time. Outside, I stuffed my hands into my gloves. Where could I go? Not to a friend’s—I didn’t want to talk. Who’d understand anyway?
The streets were slick with melting ice, refreezing as night fell. After two bus stops, I ducked into a corner shop just to warm up. The smell of fresh bread made my stomach growl. I dug out a few coins and bought a roll, shoving it into my mouth the second I stepped outside.
“Daisy?”
I turned. Harry from the year below stood there, gym bag slung over his shoulder.
“Alright?” he said. “Out for a walk?”
I couldn’t answer—mouth full of dry bread. Harry fished out a water bottle and handed it over.
“Here. Don’t want you choking.”
I swallowed gratefully. “Ta.” I made to leave.
“Your house is the other way,” he pointed out.
“Not your business.”
“It’s dark. Not safe alone. C’mon, I’ll walk you.”
We talked about his rugby matches, the upcoming season, the teachers we both hated. At my street, I hesitated.
“Don’t want to go home? Parents being tossers?” He smirked.
“They’re divorcing,” I mumbled.
“Ah. When my dad left, I ran off too. Thought if they searched for me together, maybe they’d make up.”
“Did they?”
“Yeah. For a bit. Then he left anyway. Spent two nights in a squatter’s flat before the police found me. Stank of mould for weeks.”
“And your dad?”
“Got a new wife. Pretty, but proper nasty. Mum’s better off.”
“You’re so… calm about it.”
“Would crying help? At least it’s quiet now. No more screaming. No more smashing plates. Want to come to mine? I’ll put the kettle on.”
I eyed the empty street. The cold bit deeper.
“Alright.”
His room was narrow, posters of footballers and action heroes peeling at the edges. “From when I was a kid,” he said, catching me looking. “Tea?”
Later, I woke needing the loo. Harry had draped a blanket over me while I slept. I nudged his leg.
“Wha—?” He jolted up.
“Shh! I need the bathroom.”
He led me down the hall, switching on lights. Afterwards, I hesitated.
“I should go home.”
“Now? It’s half two.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Not a chance.” He grabbed his trainers, dropping a shoehorn with a clatter.
“You *said* she was home!” I hissed.
“You wouldn’t have come if I’d said she wasn’t.”
Outside, the streets were dead. My breath fogged in the air. Harry walked me to my doorstep.
“Cheers,” I muttered.
“Anytime.”
Inside, Mum pounced. “We called every *hospital*—!”
Dad appeared, shadowed under the hallway light. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” I brushed past them. At my bedroom door, I paused. “Night, Mum. Dad.”
Breakfast was stiff silence the next morning.
“If it’s about the divorce… we’re not doing it. Not yet,” Mum said finally.
“For *me*? Don’t bother. If it’s just more shouting, I’ll leave for real.”
She flinched. “We were terrified. Do I really look that awful?”
I studied her—puffy-eyed, hair limp. “You’ve looked like this for years. New haircut. Better clothes. Maybe Dad wouldn’t sneak off to text *her* if you tried.”
Her face crumpled.
“You asked.” I stood. “I’m off to school.”
“Saw you with that boy last night,” she called after me. “Harry, from the rugby team?”
“Nothing happened.”
For days, the house was quiet. No shouting. No talking.
Then, days later, Harry caught me outside school.
“Been waiting for me?” I asked.
“Yeah. Wanted to check on you.”
“Truce. For now.”
He handed me a small box. “Open it later.”
Inside was a silver chain with a tiny heart pendant. I wore it the next morning.
Mum sat at the kitchen table, hair newly dyed and styled in a sharp bob. Dad grinned beside her.
“We got you something,” he said, sliding over a voucher. “Paintball. Invite your mates. More the merrier.”
“You’ll come?” My voice wobbled.
“Try stopping us,” Mum said. “Bring your lad too.”
I hugged them tight. “Love you.”
Divorce wrecks kids, no matter their age. Maybe some families *should* split. But if there’s a chance to fix things—why not take it? A new start isn’t always happier. And you can’t erase the past.
