Every Other Weekend

The flat was quiet, apart from the radiator ticking like it always did after the heat. He didn’t notice it most days, but today it scraped at him — like something wanting attention.

The child’s stuff was by the radiator. Clothes, toothpaste, that stupid magazine she liked. He took pride in that now — doing the practical things right, even if everything else had gone to shit.

She’d be here soon. Ten minutes, maybe. A car door would slam. One knock, sharp. No eye contact. No hello.

And then her.

He hadn’t worked in nearly two years. Blamed it on his head — which wasn’t a lie — but there was more to it. Couldn’t hack the noise. Couldn’t hack the silence either. The JobCentre were on his back again. “Start thinking long-term,” said the woman behind the desk, mascara clinging on like it had somewhere better to be. He’d nodded. That was easier than explaining that long-term didn’t exist anymore.

The fridge buzzed in the background. A dribble of milk, a tin of beans, and half a tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.

He could believe it. He’d believe anything at this point — aliens, God, a PIP approval letter.

He’d meant to go to Lidl, but the thought of people, lights, questions — it flattened him. Benefits came in yesterday. Already stretched. The girl would eat. He’d figure himself out later.

A car door shut. He moved to the window, careful with the curtain. Same battered Focus. Rust bleeding around the wheel arch. She hadn’t fixed it. She never would. He used to nag her about things like that. She’d laugh and say, “Let it fall apart. Everything else has.”

She circled round to the passenger side. The girl jumped out, bag slung over her shoulder, pink coat zipped to the throat. Taller every time. Quieter, too. He hated that.

They didn’t hug. Just a brief nod. Like strangers.

She didn’t look up, but she knew he was watching. She always did.

He still remembered how she smelled — not perfume, just her. Skin, smoke, and something slightly sweet. That smell used to live in his sheets for days. Now it lived in his brain.

They used to sit on the floor, post-roaring match, and say too much. She once told him she loved him so hard it made her stomach hurt. He’d believed her. That was the part that stuck. Not the screaming. Not the burn mark in the sofa arm from when she stubbed out a feg mid-row. Just the stupid belief.

The girl was at the door now. He opened it and stepped aside. No words. Just her feet thudding across the laminate, the weight of her little life brushing the radiator on the way past.

Then silence again.

He thought about saying something. To her. To the woman now walking back to the car.

But it passed. Like everything else.