What If Mum and Dad Split Up?

‘Are you coming out on the bikes tonight, Chris?’ Jack’s voice cut through the haze of my thoughts, his trainers scuffing the pavement as he nudged me with his elbow. The sun was blazing, making the tarmac shimmer, and I could hear the distant laughter of kids playing in the park. But all I could think about was the argument I’d overheard that morning, Mum’s voice sharp and brittle, Dad’s low and tired.

‘Dunno,’ I muttered, kicking at a loose stone. ‘Might have to help Mum with dinner.’

Kuba, always the joker, grinned. ‘You’re such a mummy’s boy, Chris. Come on, it’ll be wicked. We found this new trail by the canal.’

I tried to smile, but my heart wasn’t in it. The truth was, I didn’t want to go home at all. Not after last night. I could still hear the echo of Mum’s sobs through the thin walls, the way Dad slammed the door on his way out. I’d lain awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was it—if everything was about to change forever.

‘Maybe,’ I said, forcing a shrug. ‘I’ll text you if I can.’

Jack and Kuba exchanged a look, but didn’t push it. They peeled off towards Jack’s block, leaving me standing alone in the bright afternoon. My own flat was just around the corner, a squat brick building with peeling paint and a broken lift. I took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, hoping maybe things would be different when I walked in.

But the tension hit me as soon as I opened the door. Mum was in the kitchen, chopping carrots with a ferocity that made the knife thud against the board. Dad’s coat was gone from the hook. The telly was on, but the volume was low, as if even the newsreader was afraid to speak too loudly.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I said, dropping my bag by the door.

She didn’t look up. ‘Hi, love. Did you have a good day?’

‘Yeah. Jack and Kuba want to go cycling later. Is that alright?’

She paused, the knife hovering in mid-air. ‘I’d rather you stayed in tonight, Chris. Your dad’s coming round after work. We need to talk.’

My stomach clenched. I wanted to ask what about, but I already knew. Instead, I nodded and slunk off to my room, closing the door quietly behind me. I sat on my bed, staring at the posters on my wall—Liverpool FC, a faded map of the world, a photo of me and my parents at Blackpool beach, all smiles and sunburnt noses. It felt like a lifetime ago.

I heard Dad’s key in the lock just after six. His footsteps were heavy, tired. I pressed my ear to the door, straining to catch their voices.

‘We can’t keep doing this, Liz,’ Dad said, his voice low but urgent. ‘It’s not fair on Chris.’

Mum’s reply was muffled, but I caught the words ‘trying’ and ‘nothing changes’. There was a long silence, broken only by the clink of cutlery and the hum of the fridge. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing them to stop, to just be normal again.

Dinner was a tense affair. Mum pushed peas around her plate, Dad barely touched his food. I tried to fill the silence with stories from school, but my voice sounded too loud, too desperate.

‘Chris, your mum and I…’ Dad began, then stopped, glancing at Mum. She nodded, her lips pressed tight.

‘We’re going to have a bit of a break,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll be staying at Uncle Pete’s for a while. Just until we figure things out.’

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. I stared at my plate, blinking back tears. ‘Is it because of me?’ I whispered.

Mum reached for my hand, her fingers cold. ‘No, love. Never because of you. Sometimes grown-ups just… can’t make it work.’

I wanted to scream, to beg them to try harder, to go back to how things were. But I just nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.

That night, I lay in bed listening to the sounds of Dad packing his things. The zip of his suitcase, the soft thud of shoes being shoved into a bag. I wanted to run out and hug him, to make him promise he’d come back. But I stayed where I was, paralysed by fear and shame.

The days that followed blurred together. Dad called every night, his voice crackling through the cheap mobile Mum had bought me. He tried to sound cheerful, asking about school, about football, about Jack and Kuba. But I could hear the sadness underneath, the way he paused before saying goodbye.

Mum threw herself into work, picking up extra shifts at the hospital. She came home late, her eyes red-rimmed, her smile forced. I tried to help out—making tea, tidying up, doing my homework without being asked. But nothing seemed to make a difference. The flat felt emptier, colder.

At school, I kept my head down. Jack and Kuba noticed I was quieter, but they didn’t ask. I was grateful for that. The last thing I wanted was pity.

One afternoon, as we walked home, Jack finally broke the silence. ‘You alright, mate? You’ve been a bit off lately.’

I shrugged. ‘Just stuff at home. Mum and Dad are… having a break.’

Kuba frowned. ‘Like, splitting up?’

I nodded, staring at the ground. ‘Yeah. I think so.’

Jack put a hand on my shoulder. ‘My cousin’s parents split up last year. He said it was rough at first, but it got better. His mum’s happier now. His dad, too.’

I wanted to believe him, but the fear still sat heavy in my chest. What if it never got better? What if Dad never came home?

Weeks passed. Dad came round on Sundays, taking me to the park or out for chips. We talked about football, about school, about everything except the thing that mattered most. Mum seemed lighter, somehow, as if a weight had been lifted. She laughed more, started seeing her friends again. But I felt stuck, caught between two worlds that no longer fit together.

One evening, as I sat in my room, Mum knocked softly on the door. ‘Can I come in?’

I nodded, wiping my eyes quickly.

She sat beside me, her arm around my shoulders. ‘I know this is hard, Chris. I wish things were different. But your dad and I… we’re better apart. For you, too. We were fighting all the time. That’s no way to live.’

I looked at her, searching her face for any sign that she might change her mind. But she just smiled, sad and gentle.

‘Will Dad ever come back?’ I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, love. But he’ll always be your dad. And we both love you, more than anything.’

I nodded, tears slipping down my cheeks. She held me until I stopped shaking, until the fear eased just a little.

It’s been months now. Things aren’t perfect—sometimes I still wake up in the night, heart racing, sure that everything’s about to fall apart again. But I’m learning to live with it. Jack and Kuba still drag me out on their bikes, and sometimes I even laugh. Mum and Dad are both happier, in their own ways. And I know, deep down, that it wasn’t my fault.

Sometimes I wonder—how many other kids are lying awake at night, scared their family will break apart? Does it ever stop hurting? Or do you just get used to the ache, like a bruise that never quite fades?