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ELLIE

T he last few weeks have passed in a blur. Hospital shifts, dissertation edits I barely remember writing, and wine-soaked therapy sessions with Naomi that always start seriously and end with us snorting with laughter. Life’s been full. Good. Maybe even normal.

And David?

He’s been… different. Like nothing ever happened.

Like I didn’t wake up to an empty bed, didn’t see the glow of his monitor at 2am, and feel that cold sink into my chest. Like he didn’t walk me back from my own memory the next morning like I’d imagined it all, like the facts were foggy and unreliable.

He’s been sweet. Attentive. Bringing me coffee just the way I like it. Making Mia laugh at dinner. Remembering tiny, throwaway comments like he’s trying to prove something.

And I want to believe it’s all in my head. God, I want to.

Because if he’s trying, then maybe this wasn’t all for nothing. Maybe I didn’t waste years. Maybe I wasn’t wrong.

And I’ve been trying too. Smiling in the right places, laughing on cue, meeting him halfway like we’re rebuilding something steady. Like I’m not still holding my breath. Like I’m not still waiting for the slip.

But history has a habit of slapping me in the face. Because the thing with David is—it’s always a pendulum. One minute, he’s present and polished, all warmth and thoughtful gestures. The next, he’s distant. A constant blow of hot and cold.

It’s giving me whiplash. And I never know which version of him I’m going to get.

But I keep hoping the good one sticks. The one I love.

Then there’s Kieran.

That day in the café cracked something open in me. Something I’d boarded up a long time ago. We’ve kept in touch, like we said we would. A few messages here and there. Nothing too serious.

And it’s nice. More than nice.

But I don’t know what to do with it. I just know it’s easy. As natural as breathing.

But today isn’t about any of that. Because today is August 16th.

Mia’s birthday.

She’s thirteen. A fucking teenager.

And just like that, the breath catches in my throat.

I don’t know how we got here. How that tiny, wrinkled baby I brought home—red-faced with lungs of steel—now steals my shoes and argues about curfews.

How the girl who once clung to my hand now insists on doing everything herself.

How the years slipped through my fingers while I was too busy holding everything else together.

I’m not ready. I don’t think I ever will be.

The kitchen smells like citrus and mint. The punch bowl sweats on the counter as I stir it slowly with a wooden spoon. Non-alcoholic. Mia’s request. There’s lime, raspberries, and sprigs of mint from the pot on the windowsill. Sweet and summery. Exactly how she wanted it.

“Smells lovely in here,” Mum says, drifting in with sunglasses in one hand and her phone in the other. “Is that for the kids?”

I nod, letting out a quiet laugh. “Yep. Mia’s big on mocktails now, apparently.”

“You think that’s suitable?” Her voice is breezy, but there’s a thread of disapproval underneath.

“Called a mocktail for a reason, Mum.”

She hums, lips pursed as she peeks into the jug. “Still. Seems a bit… grown up, doesn’t it?”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “It’s fruit juice, Mum. With mint.”

“Mm. Can never be too careful, though. Don’t want to set the wrong impression.” She says vaguely.

My jaw tightens, but I smile anyway. “She’s thirteen. Not feral.”

“Well, you always did like to learn the hard way,” she says with a small, pointed smile, like it’s a joke. Like it’s not another one of her tiny barbs dressed up as maternal concern.

I can feel her watching me, waiting for something. But I keep my eyes down and stir the punch.

“She looks lovely today,” Mum diverts. “That green dress suits her.” Then her gaze shifts. Slides over me. Lingers. “You’re not wearing that out to the party, are you?”

I glance down. Jean shorts, cropped white vest, and flip-flops.

It’s thirty-two sodding degrees outside, and the least amount of clothing I can wear and still pass as remotely acceptable, the better.

I feel good. Put together, even. Sun-kissed skin, hair up, a hint of mascara.

It’s the most like myself I’ve felt in weeks.

“It’s boiling,” I say, trying to keep it light. “And it’s not like it’s a black-tie gala. It’s a garden party, Mum.”

She hums, that familiar, soft criticism wrapped in a smile. “It’s just, it’s a bit casual, isn’t it?” She raises an eyebrow. “There’ll be photos, Eleanor.”

I wince at the name. My mouth opens, then closes. I hesitate.

“There’s a lovely linen dress in your wardrobe,” she says, almost offhand. “The pale blue one I bought you. It brings out your eyes.”

The door swings shut behind her with a soft click, and I’m left alone in the kitchen. The only sound is the fizz of soda in the punch bowl.

I wasn’t going to change. But now all I can see is the look in her eyes. All I can hear is that edge in her voice. The one that’s been with me my whole life.

And, as always, I fold. Smooth the corners and make it easier for everyone else. I don’t even know when I started doing that. When I stopped defending my choices. When I decided it was simpler to just nod, smile, and slip into whatever version of myself made things run smoother.

I tell myself it’s not a big deal. It’s just an outfit. It’s just a day. But deep down, I know what it is. It’s a habit I don’t know how to break.

Still, I wipe my hands on a tea towel and head upstairs.

At the back of my wardrobe, I find the pale blue dress she was talking about. Knee-length. Sweet. Safe. The dress you wear when you want people to say you look “ well ” but not ask any follow-up questions.

It’s fine. Nice even.

I tilt my head. Try to see what she sees. Not the creased linen, or the faint tan lines, or the tired, sloping curve of my shoulders.

Just the version of me that looks like she’s got it all together.

I don’t recognise her. But I zip it up anyway.

Because today, I’ll show up and I’ll smile. Because whatever else is happening, this day is Mia’s. And she deserves a mum who makes her feel like nothing else matters.

I square my shoulders, take a breath, and head back downstairs into the thick August air. Into laughter. Into the life I built for her.

The garden hums with late-summer energy. Smoke curls from the barbecue, carrying the scent of charred corn and sizzling burgers. String lights sway overhead, throwing soft halos across the uneven grass. Layered voices fill the air, rising and falling with the rhythm of familiarity.

Everything looks like joy.

My parents huddle near the patio table, chatting with David’s mum and dad. They all look like they’ve stepped out of a country club brochure—pearls, expensive watches, pressed linen, wine glasses never empty.

“Mum!” Mia calls from across the garden, waving me over with a half-eaten cupcake in one hand. “If I have to hear one more person say how grown up I look, I’m moving to Antarctica.”

I snort and make my way over, ruffling her hair as I pass. She ducks away with a groan. “Seriously?”

“Oh come on, you love the attention.”

“I tolerate it,” she says primly. “Big difference.”

I grin and loop an arm around her shoulders before she can wriggle free. “Happy birthday, bug.”

She sighs but leans in for a beat, just long enough for a squeeze. “Thanks, Mum.”

I glance around, scanning the crowd that’s mostly made up of neighbours, friends, a few stray relatives. Then I lower my voice, keeping it casual. “Did your dad stop by this morning?”

Mia nods, licking a bit of icing from her thumb. “Yeah. He dropped off a card.”

“Did he stay long?”

“Nah, just a quick hello. He had work.” She says it lightly, without bitterness. Just a fact.

I nod. “Did he give you anything nice?”

She shrugs, but there’s a small smile tugging at her lips. “Cash. Classic move. But he wrote something sappy in the card.”

I bump her shoulder gently. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” she says, glancing up at me. “I’m glad he came. Even for a minute.”

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes. Fondness, maybe. That careful middle ground where love lives, even if closeness doesn’t.

“Good,” I whisper. “I’m glad too.”

Then she’s off again. She darts back to her friends surrounding the punch bowl, clinking plastic tumblers of pink fizz like it’s champagne. I watch her go, this brilliant, growing girl who somehow carries grace wherever she goes.

And then I realise. I did this. Whatever else I’ve messed up. I gave her this. A life full of joy to live in.

Across the garden, David steps out of the kitchen, a tray of drinks balanced neatly in his hands. He moves with careful ease, like someone playing the part of a host in a scene he’s already rehearsed. His face gives nothing away, just that same smooth, unreadable calm.

“Babe, can you give me a hand with the food?”

“Sure.”

I follow him inside, the sound of laughter fading as the door swings shut behind us.

The kitchen is warm and slightly chaotic.

Every surface taken hostage by trays and foil-covered bowls, the air dense with the mix of grilled meat and garlic butter.

Somewhere beneath it all, there’s a hint of overripe strawberries and something beginning to scorch.

The birthday cake sits on the counter, pristine and over-decorated, like it knows its moment’s coming.

David sets the tray down and turns to me, watching. “Everything okay?”

I nod. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?”

He shrugs, mouth twitching into a smile that doesn’t quite make it to his eyes. “Just checking.”

I reach for a plate, peeling back the foil on the grilled chicken like it demands my full attention. He hands me the still-warm garlic bread, the scent of herbs and butter rising between us.

“You’ve done good with her, you know,” he says.

It catches me off guard. Lands somewhere soft. “We both have, David.”