Page 2

the same apology

ELLIE

I can’t remember the last time I had a decent night’s sleep—where you wake up and actually feel human again.

I’m in the last official year I can claim to be in my twenties, and somehow this wasn’t quite how I pictured my life turning out. Less living and laughing, more caffeine-fuelled survival.

It’s already too warm for this early in the day, the July heat wrapping itself around my neck like a damp scarf as I dash across the car park, bag thumping against one shoulder, eyelids staging a quiet rebellion.

By the time I haul myself into the car, it’s less vehicle, more convection oven.

I crank the window, blast the fan, and grip the wheel like a woman clinging to the last shred of her dignity.

I just need to make it home. Ideally, without swerving into a bush, or having a meltdown on the A27.

People talk about burnout like it’s a phase. Something you bounce back from with a long weekend and a bubble bath. But this? This is the tiredness that seeps into everything—my limbs, my thoughts, even my patience.

Still, I’m not about to fall at the last hurdle.

Three long, soul-crushing years are finally coming to an end, and I can almost see the finish line. Two more months, and I’ll officially call myself Staff Nurse Carter. And then, maybe it’ll all be worth it.

I built this life, so I guess I can’t complain, right? That’s the line I feed myself on loop: you’re lucky , and maybe I am.

I’ve got stability, somewhere to call home, a family, and a job that keeps me moving. Or rather, another gruelling placement—standard fifty-hour weeks with all the responsibility, none of the salary, and the joy of being mistaken for someone who actually knows what they’re doing.

By the time I pull into drive, the sky’s painted a pale gold, and Windrush Hollow is beginning to stir. There’s a low hum of birdsong in the hedgerows, the distant whine of a lawnmower starting up, and Mr Henderson’s terrier is yapping frantically from number seventeen like he owns the damn street.

It’s a coastal town, tucked just outside the city of South Havens. A quiet patch in the south of England where the sea air clings to your washing and people think nipping to the shop is a social event.

I grew up in the city, and for a while after having Mia, I stayed at home with my parents.

Figured it’d help, or maybe it would make the whole single-mum thing less of a tightrope act—didn’t take long to realise I’d severely miscalculated.

It was like parenting under a microscope and somehow, I was always the dodgy specimen.

I needed space, something quieter, something slower.

Somewhere I could learn to do this on my own, without an audience or a running commentary from the sidelines.

So, I moved here. It’s a place you can breathe without the traffic roaring through your window at 2am and where the neighbours nod at you from across the road. Mia and I have been here nearly eleven years now, and honestly, I can’t imagine living anywhere else.

Every house on this street is a variation on the same theme—decent-sized, detached, lawns trimmed within an inch of their lives, and hanging baskets so pristine they could have their own feature in the Royal Horticultural Society magazine.

Our roses gave up after Mia punted a football into the bushes last summer, and the front gate’s been shedding paint since January. There’s a metaphor lurking in all that decay, but honestly? I’m too knackered to care.

For a second, I just sit here, engine ticking, hands gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. My head throbs, my back’s staging its own protest, and my eyes are dry from too many hours under fluorescent lights.

I’ve just spent thirteen hours in the fiery depths of hell. South Havens A&E. Code blues, drunk teenagers attempting parkour off pub roofs, a stag-do casualty who refused to remove his inflatable T-Rex costume, and a regular who turns up every Friday with a nosebleed. Never a dull moment.

I exhale, peel myself out of the car, and shuffle up the path—keys jangling in my hand. As soon as I open the door, the scent of David’s aftershave hits me—sharp and woodsy, with a hint of spice. It’s warm, familiar, and oddly comforting.

The hallway is dim, thick with that early-morning quiet. No creak of floorboards from upstairs, no hint of movement. The clock on the wall blinks 7:47 a.m.

Steadying myself with a hand on the wall, I kick off my shoes.

I climb the stairs slowly, the weight of the night shift still clinging to my limbs like wet fabric. The landing is silent. No sign of life. No cartoons humming from the Mia’s bedroom.

I cross the hall and nudge the bedroom door open. The curtains are drawn tight, and the room is steeped in that heavy, post-sleep stillness. David’s sprawled across the duvet, one arm hanging off the edge, phone resting on his chest like it gave up long before he did.

“David,” I whisper, nudging his shoulder gently.

Nothing.

I try again, a little louder this time. “David.”

A groan, then a rustle of duvet. He blinks up at me, bleary-eyed, hair flattened on one side. “What?” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

“It’s nearly eight.”

He squints at the clock. “Shit,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I must’ve slept through the alarm.”

“David, I thought we agreed—” I start, quiet but tired.

He exhales sharply, dragging his palms down his face. “Babe, come on. It’s one morning. Can we not do this?”

“It’s not… this keeps happening.” I say quickly, my stomach already knotting.

“Right, because I’m completely useless.” He’s up now, pushing his hair back. “One mistake, and you act like it’s the end of the world.”

That’s not what I’m doing. That’s not what I meant. But still, the guilt creeps in, sharp and fast.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just—” I murmur, voice shrinking.

“Well, it’s what it sounded like, Ellie.” His tone lands heavier than before.

My throat tightens. The more I try to explain, the worse it feels.

“You always get yourself worked up over nothing,” he mutters, shaking his head. “It’s not that fucking deep.”

I open my mouth to speak—but he’s already turning away. Done. Like the moment never deserved more than that.

A second later, I hear the en-suite shower burst to life, hot water hissing against the tiles.

I stand there for a beat too long, still trying to piece together what the fuck just happened and whether I’m the one who turned it into something it didn’t need to be.

I take a long breath, roll my neck, and cross the landing to Mia’s bedroom—just another morning.

“Mia?” I call out softly.

“Mum?” Her voice is muffled, thick with sleep, floating out from behind her half-closed door.

I lean against the frame for a second and let my head rest there. “C’mon, sweetie,” I mutter. “You need to get up.”

There’s a groan, followed by the familiar rustle of sheets.

“I was having an amazing dream,” she called after me. “You ruined it, by the way!”

Ten minutes later, Mia trudges into the kitchen with her bag half-zipped and one sock already retreating from her ankle.

Business as usual. Her ponytail is a chaotic afterthought, and her skirt is hitched high enough to start a uniform violation.

I raise an eyebrow. She rolls her eyes like I’ve just ruined her life.

“David didn’t wake me.” She mutters, plonking her bag on the worktop.

Without a word, I grab her bag and start looking for her lunchbox. My silence louder than it needs to be. I peel back the lid, nose wrinkling at the smell of warm yoghurt and something squashed beyond recognition.

“I know, bug. But, you’re almost thirteen now,” I say, discarding the leftovers. “You really do need to start setting an alarm. Just in case David isn’t up on time.”

She nods, still half-asleep, but there’s a flicker of something behind the yawn. Understanding, maybe.

“Now come on, get some breakfast. I’ll make your lunch, and we’ll make it work, okay? We always do.”

I turn to the fridge and pull out whatever’s edible. Something that’ll pass whatever absurd, sugar-free rule the school’s decided on this week—cheese sandwiches it is, practical and uninspiring. I throw in some carrot sticks, an apple, and a yoghurt to make it look like I tried.

“Thanks, Mum,” Mia says, grabbing her lunch and dropping her cereal bowl into the sink.

“Are you leaving your hair like that?”

The glare she gives me could flatten a city.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” I say, raising my hands in surrender. “Get your shoes on, and we can go.”

We head out to the car and the sun is climbing now, casting long shadows across the drive. The air smells like freshly cut grass, and someone is blasting the radio from an open window. It’s too early for ‘80s synth-pop—but here we are.

Mia slides into the passenger seat, earbuds in, thumb scrolling. The door shuts, and she’s gone. Mentally elsewhere, physically two feet away. I glance at her as I start the engine, but she doesn’t look up.

She’s growing up so fast I can’t keep up.

All eye rolls and sarcasm, with a sudden need for independence.

I still catch glimpses of the little girl she used to be, though.

The way she tucks her hair behind her ear, or the way she bites her lip when she’s nervous.

But those moments are getting rarer by the day.

When we pull up outside the school gates, Mia’s already halfway out of her seat before I’ve even stopped the car.

“Bye, bug,” I say, blowing her a kiss.

She turns just enough to throw a half-hearted wave over her shoulder. “Bye, Mum.”

And then she’s gone, swallowed up by a sea of uniforms and laughter.

I pause for a moment, shift the car into gear, and pull away. There’s a hot mug of coffee waiting for me at my favourite little spot down by the beach.