Fiction – Cole Beauchamp

If only

If only this didn’t happen every morning. If only your daughter didn’t scoop one Cheerio at a time into her spoon, study that lone circle of grain so intently, chew it quite so long. No. Eye. Contact. You know better. Her wild hair is knotted at the back and your hands itch to tidy it. “Plaits?”

Marissa face scrunches, chin tilts even further down.

If only you didn’t have to lose so many battles, hoping to win the war. If only your jaw didn’t ache from biting down your temper, from raging at Mike for just walking away, giving up.

You wipe milk from the counter, don’t look at the clock you’ve set twenty minutes early so you get to school on time. “Bag all set?”

Marissa hunches her shoulders, grinds another Cheerio to mush.

Shoes. If only shoes were not the hill you had to die on daily. If only you could just get out the door without your daughter wailing, “Too tight!” You shove two fingers between the strap of her Mary Janes and ankle socks but Marissa’s not having it. It’s almost like she enjoys this, mouth hinged open, full throttle. And why not? Wouldn’t you like to? You bet it feels glorious.

Shoes off. Sit and do not speak. Count time in your head. 

Marissa needs the loo. Then she’s thirsty. Then she’s going to be sick. Finally, the shoes are on. Finally, you reach the school grounds. 

If only you could whisk through the playground, unseen. You don’t want sympathy; you want an invisibility cloak. 

“Rushing this morning, were we?” Fake sympathy from Fake Tan Mum who looks pointedly at Marissa’s unbrushed hair. Her daughter? Sleek as an otter.

Marissa’s palm sneeks into yours and together you head toward the entrance, past Villa-in-Italy Mum and Council Estate Mum.

“Hi Laurie,” Villa-in-Italy Mum breezes. “Just collecting for-”

“Lauren,” you correct her.

“Yes,” she says, waving over another mum. “Collecting for Mrs Merickee? World Teachers’ Day is coming up and we thought-”

If only they knew how little cash you have to spare. You exchange a look with Council Estate Mum. 

Nancy!” Villa-in-Italy Mum is all bonhomie in her flowing maxi dress. “Care to contribute? Mrs Merickee? World Teachers’ Day?”

As Designer Bag Mum reaches into her gorgeous green leather handbag, you and Council Estate Mum edge away. “I need to get Marissa into class first.”

“Oh, she can go in with Clemmie, can’t you hon?” Villa-in-Italy Mum pushes her sour-faced daughter toward the entrance and reaches towards Marissa as if to do the same.

Marissa’s face tightens and you jump between them. No need for a meltdown. “That’s ok, I need to talk to Mrs Merickee anyway.” 

If only they knew how much easier it is to lie than to explain. You step into the corridor. Voices clank off polished floors and hard walls; children laugh and give each other fist bumps. It’s so loud even though no one is shouting. Marissa gulps air, mouth puckering like a fish. If only they knew how much their noise felt like an attack. 

A teaching assistant you haven’t seen before stops and asks if you’re lost. “Parents aren’t allowed back here.”

If only they put Marissa first instead of their stupid rules. If only you weren’t on your knees, just five weeks into the ter. “We’ll just be a minute,” you say, gesturing to Marissa’s headphones. Best investment you ever made. Her face goes slack with relief. 

If only you could make the world more Marissa-friendly. You walk the rest of the way to class, her Mary Janes and your Crocs squeaking down the corridor. If only everyone were like Mrs Merickee, whose gentle “Morning Marissa” greets your daughter. She’s in. Lightheaded, you lean against the stuccoed wall. Now it’s time for your face to go slack. 

Outside again you see Artsy Mum in her dungarees and Marathon Mum, hair in a pony, abs on show in a cut-off top above neon leggings.  “All good?”

You’re so happy you forget to censor yourself. “Third day this week!”

“Third day for what?”

Blue-Stocking Mum wanders over. Great. A crowd. “Oh I’ve been having a bit of trouble, getting her to come to school.” You stare at the school gate, trying to summon yourself there.

Artsy Mum frowns. “She doesn’t like school?”

If only conversations on the playground weren’t so competitive. If only you had one day when you didn’t feel like a slug and you’d bathed and you had an actual friend. Maybe Artsy Mum, with her gentle confidence and wicked laugh, maybe even Blue-Stocking Mum, who sounds like Oxford but never acts like she’s all that.

“Just tell her she needs to be in school,” says Marathon Mum. “We all have to do things we don’t want to do.”

If only they knew how many things Marissa endures that feel like torture. Seams in her clothes like razors. Speaking in public like being whipped. 

If only people could just stop with the snap judgements. Five minutes past nine and you long for your duvet. Your stomach churns until you remember Marissa’s face with her headphones in place. You remember her drawing a pineapple last night, the intricate detail of each segment. If only they knew how amazing your daughter was.

“Hold up ladies,” says Blue Stocking Mum. “I heard something about this on Radio Four.” 

“Honestly, whose kids aren’t struggling with school since Covid?” says Artsy Mum.

Their words wash over you like soft rain. Your jaw eases. 

Artsy Mum says, “Hey, anyone have time for a cuppa? We could go to mine.” She catches your eye and holds it. 

Oh, you think. Oh. 

Maybe you could.