The summer before the next year is still vivid in my mind. Outside my flat, the long June day stretched lazily, green leaves pressed against the windows as if to keep out too much light. The panes were flung wide, and in the quiet I could hear sparrows and the occasional distant laugh of children playing in the street. In that flat, where every piece of furniture had long claimed its rightful place, lived two people fortyfiveyearold Claire and her seventeenyearold son, Ethan. That June felt a little different; the air carried not so much freshness as a tightness that lingered even when a breeze slipped through the room.
The morning the GCSE results arrived is one I shall not forget. Ethan sat at the kitchen table, his face buried in his phone, shoulders hunched. He said nothing at first, while I stood over the kettle, unsure of what to say.
Sorry, Mum, I didnt pass, he finally said, his voice even but heavy with fatigue. Fatigue had become a familiar guest for both of us over the past year. After school Ethan hardly went out at all; he was left to study alone, attending free lessons at the local furthereducation college. I tried not to press him too hard, bringing him mint tea and sometimes sitting beside him simply to keep him company in silence. Now everything seemed to start again.
For me the news was a cold splash of water. I knew a retake could only be arranged through the school, meaning another round of paperwork and deadlines. I had no pounds to spare for private tuition. Ethans father lived apart and offered no help. That evening we ate in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. I ran through possible solutions in my head: where to find affordable tutors, how to persuade Ethan to give it another go, whether I had the strength to support both him and myself.
Ethan drifted through those days as if on autopilot. In his room a stack of notebooks sat beside a laptop. He leafed through the same maths and English practice papers he had tackled in the spring. Occasionally he stared out the window so long that it seemed he might step out of the room altogether. His answers were brief. I could see the pain of revisiting old material, but there was no other waywithout GCSEs there was no university.
The following evening we finally talked about a plan. I opened my laptop and suggested we look for a tutor.
Maybe we could try someone new? I asked gently.
Ill manage on my own, Ethan muttered.
I sighed, knowing he was too proud to ask for help, yet the last time he tried alone the result had been this very disappointment. I wanted to hug him then, but I held back. Instead I steered the conversation toward a schedule: how many hours a day he could study, whether his approach needed a change, what had been hardest in the spring. Slowly the tone softened; both of us understood there was no turning back.
In the days that followed I rang acquaintances and hunted for teacher contacts. In a school group chat I found a woman called Mrs. Tessa Morgan, a maths tutor. We arranged a trial lesson. Ethan listened halfheartedly, still on guard. When I later handed him a list of potential English and humanities tutors, he grudgingly agreed to glance at the profiles with me.
The first weeks of summer settled into a new routine. Mornings began with breakfast at the kitchen tableporridge, tea with lemon or mint, sometimes a handful of fresh berries from the market. Then came the maths tutor, either online or at home depending on the tutors timetable. After lunch a short break, followed by independent work on practice tests. Evenings were spent reviewing mistakes or calling other tutors.
Each day the fatigue grew for both of us. By the end of the second week the tension crept into the smallest things: someone forgot to buy bread, someone left the iron on, tempers flared over trivial matters. One evening, middinner, Ethan slammed his fork down.
Why are you hovering over me? Im an adult! he shouted.
I tried to explain that I needed to know his schedule to help organise his day, but he simply stared out the window in silence.
Midsummer it became clear the old method was failing. Tutors varied wildlysome demanded rote memorisation, others handed out impossible worksheets without explanation. After many sessions Ethan looked utterly drained. I blamed myself, wondering if I had pressed too hard. The flat grew stifling; the windows were open, yet neither body nor spirit felt any relief.
A few times I suggested a walk or a brief outing to break the monotony, but the conversation usually slid back into arguments about wasted time outdoors versus the gaps in his knowledge and the upcoming weekly plan.
One particularly heavy day the maths tutor gave Ethan a difficult mock paper; the result was worse than expected. He returned home sullen and shut himself in his room. Later I heard a soft knock and stepped in cautiously.
May I? I asked.
What? he replied.
Lets talk
He stayed silent for a long while, then finally said, Im terrified of failing again. I sat beside him on the edge of the bed. Im scared for you too, I admitted, but I see you giving it your all. He met my eyes. What if it doesnt work? he asked. Then well figure out the next step together, I promised. We spoke for nearly an hour about the fear of being less than others, our shared exhaustion, and the helplessness that the exam system inspires. We agreed it was foolish to wait for perfection; we needed a realistic plan that matched our strengths and limits.
That night we rewrote the schedule: fewer study hours, builtin time for walks and short breaks, and a pact to bring up any difficulty immediately rather than letting resentment fester. Ethan kept the window open more often; the evening coolness began to displace the days stuffiness. After our honest talk, a fragile calm settled over the flat. Ethan taped the new timetable to his wall, highlighting rest days in bright marker so the agreement would not be forgotten.
At first the new rhythm felt odd. My hand would reach for the phone to check whether Ethan had called his tutor, but then I would remember our conversation and pause. In the evenings we would walk to the corner shop or simply stroll around the courtyard, chatting about nothing more serious than the weather or a new TV series. Ethan still felt the strain after lessons, but anger and irritation appeared far less often. He began to ask for help with a problem not out of fear of being scolded, but because he trusted that I would listen without judgment.
The first successes arrived quietly. One afternoon Mrs. Morgan messaged me, Today Ethan solved two questions from the second part on his own. Hes really learning from his mistakes. I read the short note several times, a smile spreading as if it were a monumental achievement. At dinner I praised him modestly, simply noting his progress. Ethan brushed it off, but the corners of his mouth twitchedacknowledgement had finally found its place.
Later, during an online English lesson, he scored highly on a composition mockexam. He approached me, a rarity in recent months, and whispered, I think Im starting to understand how to build an argument. I nodded and gave him a brief hug.
Day by day the atmosphere at home warmed, not dramatically, but like the gentle shift of light across familiar walls. The kitchen table began to host lateseason berries from the market; after a walk we sometimes brought home cucumbers or tomatoes from a stall near the tube station. We dined together more often, swapping school news or weekend plans instead of endless lists of topics to revise.
Our attitude to the exams changed as well. Where once every mistake was a catastrophe, now we dissected it calmly, sometimes even with a laugh. Once Ethan jotted a sarcastic comment in his notebook about the absurd wording of a question; I laughed heartily, and he joined in.
Conversations gradually drifted away from GCSEs alone. We talked about films, the music on Ethans playlist, or vague plans for the coming Septemberstill without firm university names, but with a sense of shared future. Both of us learned to trust each other beyond the confines of study.
The days grew shorter; the sun no longer lingered into the evening, but the air was scented with latesummer warmth and the distant chatter of children playing on the culdesac. Occasionally Ethan would wander off alone or meet friends at the playground near the school, and I would let him go, knowing the household tasks could wait a couple of hours.
By midAugust I caught myself no longer scanning his timetable under cover of darkness; I began to believe his word about the work he had done, without constant checks. Ethan too grew less irritable when I asked about his plans or offered a hand with chores the tension seemed to have evaporated with the frantic race for an ideal score.
One night, before we went to bed, we sat at the kitchen sink with mugs of tea, the window ajar, and talked about the year ahead.
If I get into university Ethan began, then fell silent.
I smiled, If not, well keep looking together.
He met my gaze, Thank you for staying with me through all this.
I raised my hand, We did it together.
Both of us knew more work and uncertainty lay ahead, but the fear of facing it alone had faded.
In the final days of August the mornings arrived crisp; the first yellow leaves speckled the hedges, a reminder that autumnand new challengeswere near. Ethan gathered his books for another tutoring session; I set the kettle for breakfast. The familiar motions now felt steadier.
We had already submitted the retake application through the school, avoiding the lastminute rush that used to accompany the exam period. That small step gave us both confidence.
Now each day held more than a timetable or a list of tasks; it included plans for an evening walk or a joint trip to the grocery store after my shift. We still quibbled over petty things or the monotony of preparation, but we had learned to pause, to voice our feelings before resentment could turn into distance.
As September approached, it became clear that whatever the exam results might be, the true change had already taken place within our family. We had become a team where once each of us tried to cope alone; we learned to share the small victories instead of waiting for approval from distant scoreboards.
The future remained uncertain, yet it shone brighter now that none of us had to walk toward it alone.
