One mistfilled evening, as the clock in the old flat above Oldhams market tower struck the hour, I was drifting through a familiar game with my sixyearold son, Oliver. The room hummed with the soft clatter of wooden dice, when an abrupt rap sounded on the front door, as if a windchime had been hurlthrown against the wood. I opened it and there stood a figure I had almost erased from memorymy former wife, Ethel.
James Whitaker and I had been married for seven years, our lives neatly folded into the rhythm of Manchesters rainslick streets. Olivers laughter filled the flat, and I often dreamed of a little girl to complete the picture, a daughter whose name would echo only in the old English lullabies.
Time slipped by, and Ethels smile grew cooler, her words threading a distance between us. The space between our beds widened, each night becoming a quiet island. She blamed fatigue, the gray clouds of mood, but the silence grew heavier with each sunrise.
One day a pair of old mates, whod known us from university days in Leeds, pulled my eyes open. We saw her, they said, being driven to work by a gentleman in a crisp navy coat. He held the door for her as if she were royalty. Their words floated like glass shards in my mind, and I clung to the hope that our love might survive, especially for Olivers sake.
At dusk I confronted Ethel, my voice a trembling lantern. Were you unfaithful? I asked directly. She could not answer, gathered her belongings, and slipped out, leaving Oliver with me. I felt a strange relief that the boy stayed; yet the emptiness of a mothers love left me wondering whether she was truly a bad mother or merely lost in her own fog.
The first weeks were a maze of uncertainty. I consulted relatives, friends, and scoured the internet for parenting tips. Oliver missed his mother at first, his small hands reaching for an absent silhouette, but soon his tears quieted.
Four years later, life steadied. I poured whatever I could into Olivernew shoes, books, weekend trips to the Lake District, and occasional treats bought with a few crisp £20 notes. Our days stretched into a patchwork of adventures and quiet evenings.
Then, as if the past had rehearsed its return, the same knock echoed again. I opened the door to find Ethel, looking exactly as she had four years before, perhaps even brighter. Oliver, however, paid her no heed. She stood, bewildered, before launching into embraces, kisses, apologies, and declarations of a love that burned hotter than a summer bonfire. Oliver turned his back, his small world unshaken.
Seeking to untangle the knot, I invited everyone for tea, hoping the steam would soften the tension. For the first ten minutes the room sat in a heavy hush, the clink of china the only sound. Then, like a curtain lifting, Ethels voice slipped outshe wanted to take Oliver with her.
I gave Oliver a chance to choose, watching the flicker of fear in his eyes. I suggested he might spend a few days with his mother, see the world from her side, before deciding.
Throughout, a solitary thought lingered: If Oliver chose the other side, would I end up alone, a solitary figure in a house that once echoed with his laughter?
When morning painted the sky a pallid pink, Oliver returned. Mum isnt alone, he said, and I want to stay with you, Dad. Ill keep in touch with Mum, but Im not ready to move. His words settled over me like a gentle rain, and the dreamlike knot finally loosened, leaving the flat humming with the quiet promise of an ordinary, yet somehow surreal, tomorrow.
