The early summer stretched itself outside my flat in Manchester the days were long, the gardenborder leaves pressed against the windows as if trying to keep the room from too much light. The windows were flung open; in the quiet I could hear sparrows and the occasional laugh of children playing down the street. In this flat, where every object had long settled into its proper place, lived two of us fortyoneyearold Olivia and her seventeenyearold son, Ethan. This June felt a little different: the air carried not just freshness but a tension that lingered even when a draft slipped through.
Ill never forget the morning the ALevel results arrived. Ethan sat at the kitchen table, eyes glued to his phone, shoulders rigid. He said nothing, and I stood by the stove, unsure what to say. Mum, I didnt make it, he finally said, his voice even but weary. The fatigue that had become our constant companion over the past year settled again between us. Since leaving school, Ethan had barely gone out; he was studying alone, attending free sessions at the local sixthform college. I tried not to press too hard I brewed mint tea and sometimes sat beside him simply to be there in silence. Now everything had to start again.
For me the news hit like a cold shower. I knew a retake could only be arranged through the school, meaning another round of paperwork and deadlines. We had no money for private tuition; the £priced courses were out of reach. Ethans father lived apart and played no part in this. That evening we ate dinner in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. I ran through options in my head where to find affordable tutors, how to convince Ethan to give it another go, whether I had the strength to keep both of us afloat.
Ethan seemed to drift on autopilot. A stack of notebooks sat next to his laptop, and he flipped through math and English practice papers the same exercises hed tackled in the spring. He stared out the window so long it looked as if he might walk right through it. His answers were short; I could see the pain of revisiting material hed already struggled with. But there was no choice without ALevel grades he couldnt get into university, so he had to brace himself for another round of preparation.
The next night we sat down together to draw up a plan. I opened my laptop and suggested we look for tutors.
Maybe we could try someone new? I asked cautiously.
Ill manage on my own, Ethan muttered.
I sighed. He was proud, embarrassed to ask for help, and the result of his solitary effort was clear. I wanted to hold him, but held back, steering the conversation toward a schedule how many hours a day he could study, whether we needed to change our approach, what had been hardest in the spring. The talk softened; we both understood there was no turning back.
In the following days I phoned contacts and scoured school forums. I found a woman named Susan Clarke, a maths tutor, and arranged a trial lesson. Ethan listened halfheartedly, still on edge. That evening I handed him a list of potential English and social studies tutors; he grudgingly agreed to glance at the profiles with me.
The first weeks of summer fell into a new routine. Mornings began with a shared breakfast porridge, tea with lemon or mint, sometimes fresh berries from the market. Then a maths session, either online or at home depending on the tutors availability. After lunch came a short break and some independent practice, and evenings were for reviewing mistakes or calls to other tutors.
Fatigue grew for both of us. By the second week the strain showed up in the little things forgetting to buy bread, leaving the iron on, snapping over trivial matters. One night, as we ate, Ethan flung his fork down hard.
Why are you always watching me? he snapped. Im an adult now!
I tried to explain that I needed to know his schedule to help him organise his day, but he just stared out the window in silence.
Midsummer made it clear the original plan wasnt working. Tutors varied wildly some demanded rote memorisation, others tossed out hard problems without explanation, leaving Ethan exhausted after each session. I blamed myself for pushing too hard. The flat felt stuffy; the windows were wide open, yet neither body nor mind found relief.
I attempted a few times to suggest a walk or a short outing to break the monotony, but most talks boiled down to arguments he dismissed the idea of spending time outside, I listed his knowledge gaps and a weeks worth of lessons.
One particularly rough day the maths tutor gave Ethan a tough practice paper and his score was far below expectations. He came home gloomy and locked himself in his room. Later I heard a soft knock on the door and entered gently.
May I come in? I asked.
What? he replied.
Lets talk
He stayed silent for a long while, then finally said, Im scared Ill fail again. I sat on the edge of his bed.
Im scared for you too, I admitted. But I see how hard youre trying.
He met my gaze. What if I still dont make it?
Then well keep figuring it out together, I said.
We talked for nearly an hour about the fear of being worse than others, the exhaustion we both felt, and the helplessness in front of this exam machine. We agreed it was foolish to expect perfection; we needed a realistic plan that fit our limits and resources.
That evening we redrew the timetable cutting back study hours, carving out time for walks and a couple of evenings off each week, and promising to raise any problem straight away instead of letting resentment build.
Ethans room now often had the window cracked open; the evening breeze pushed out the days heat. After our honest talk, a tentative calm settled over the flat. Ethan pinned the new schedule to his wall, highlighting rest days in bright marker so we wouldnt forget.
At first the new rhythm felt odd. My hand sometimes reached for the phone to check whether Ethan had called his tutor, but I stopped myself, recalling our conversation. In the evenings we would stroll to the corner shop or simply wander around the courtyard, chatting about nothing more serious than the weather. Ethan still felt drained after lessons, but his anger and irritation appeared less frequently. He began to ask for help with tough problems, not out of fear of being scolded but because he trusted I would listen without judgment.
The first signs of progress came quietly. Susan Clarke messaged me saying, Today Ethan solved two problems from the second section on his own. Hes really learning from his mistakes. I read the line several times, smiling as if it were a major victory. At dinner I praised him gently, noting the improvement without overpraising. Ethan brushed it off, but the corners of his mouth twitched.
Later, during an online English session, he earned a high mark on a practice essay. He walked over to show me the result a rare gesture in recent months. In a low voice he said, I think Im starting to get how to build arguments. I simply nodded and gave him a supportive squeeze on the shoulder.
Each day the atmosphere in the house grew warmer, not in sudden bursts but in subtle shifts of tone. Lateseason berries appeared on the kitchen table, fresh cucumbers or tomatoes from the market after a quick walk. We began to eat together more often, swapping news about school or weekend plans instead of endless lists of revision topics.
Our attitude toward studying changed too. Mistakes were no longer catastrophes; we dissected them calmly, sometimes even with a joke. Once Ethan scribbled a sarcastic comment about the absurd phrasing of an exam question in his notebook; I laughed so genuinely that he joined in.
Conversations gradually drifted beyond the ALevels we talked about a film wed both enjoyed, the playlist Ethan was listening to, and vague plans for September, without pinning down university names or dates. Both of us learned to trust each other beyond the confines of schoolwork.
The days grew shorter; the sun no longer burned until dusk, but the air was rich with the scent of late summer and the distant shouts of children playing in the street. Sometimes Ethan would wander off to meet friends at the park near his school, and I would let him go, knowing the chores at home could wait a few hours.
By midAugust I caught myself no longer sneaking a look at his timetable after dark; I felt more at ease believing his word about what hed completed. Ethan, too, seemed less irritated when I asked about his plans or offered help around the house. The pressure that had once hovered like a thick fog was easing.
One night, before bed, we sat at the kitchen table with tea steaming by the open window, talking about what the next year might hold.
If I get into university Ethan began, then fell silent.
I smiled, If not, well keep looking together.
He met my eyes seriously, Thanks for staying with me through all this.
I waved my hand, Weve done it together.
We both knew there was still a lot ahead more work, more uncertainty but the fear of facing it alone had faded.
In the final days of August, mornings greeted us with fresh coolness, and the first yellow leaves appeared among the green on the trees outside our flat, signalling autumns approach. Ethan gathered his textbooks for another tutoring session; I set the kettle for breakfast, the familiar motions now feeling steadier.
Wed already lodged a retake request with the school, avoiding the lastminute scramble that many students face. That small step gave us both a boost of confidence.
Now each day was filled not only with lesson plans and todo lists but also with shared walks in the evening or joint trips to the grocery store after my shift. We still argued over trivial things now and then, but we had learned to pause, speak our minds, and prevent resentment from turning into distance.
As September loomed, it became clear that whatever the exam results, the real change had happened inside our family. Wed become a team, whereas before each of us tried to fend for ourselves; we learned to celebrate tiny victories instead of waiting for approval from distant exam boards.
The future remained uncertain, yet it seemed brighter because we were no longer walking toward it alone.
