Until Next Summer

The air was thick with the scent of early summerendless daylight filtering through the leaves pressed against the windowpane like green fingers shielding the room. The flats windows were flung open, letting in the distant chatter of children and the occasional birdsong. Inside, every object had settled into its rightful place over the years. Here lived forty-five-year-old Eleanor and her seventeen-year-old son, Oliver. This June felt different somehownot fresh, but charged with a tension that lingered even in the breeze.

The morning Olivers A-level results arrived would stay with Eleanor for a long time. He sat hunched at the kitchen table, eyes glued to his phone, shoulders rigid. Silence hung between them as she stood by the stove, searching for words. Mum, it didnt work out, he finally said, his voice flat but weary. Exhaustion had become familiar this past yearfor both of them. Oliver had barely left the house after school, studying for his exams on his own or attending free revision sessions at the sixth form. Shed tried not to push: bringing him chamomile tea, sometimes just sitting beside him in silence. Now it all had to begin again.

For Eleanor, the news was a bucket of cold water. Resits would have to go through the schoolmore paperwork, more hurdles. Private tutors were out of the question. Olivers father had long since moved on, offering no help. That evening, they ate dinner in silence, each lost in thought. She turned over options in her mind: where to find affordable tutors, how to convince Oliver to try again, whether she had the strength to keep them both afloat.

In the days that followed, Oliver moved like an automaton. His room was a mess of notebooks piled beside his laptop. He flipped through past Maths and English papersthe same questions hed tackled months ago. Sometimes he stared out the window so long it seemed he might vanish into the glass. His replies were clipped. She could see the frustration in his jawhaving to retread old ground. But there was no choice. No A-levels, no university. So back to studying it was.

The next evening, they sat down to make a plan. Eleanor opened her laptop. Maybe we could try someone new? she ventured.
I can manage on my own, Oliver muttered.
She sighed. He was too proud to ask for help. But going it alone had led them here. For a moment, she wanted to pull him into a hug, but held back. Instead, she nudged the conversation toward schedules: how many hours a day he could handle, what had tripped him up last time. Slowly, the tension eased. Neither of them said it, but they both knewthere was no turning back.

Over the next few days, Eleanor called acquaintances, scoured forums for tutors. In a parents group chat, she found a womanMargaret Hayeswho specialised in Maths revision. They arranged a trial session. Oliver barely reacted, still guarded. But when she brought him a list of potential tutors for English and Sociology that evening, he grudgingly agreed to look through the profiles with her.

The first weeks of summer settled into a new rhythm. Breakfast at the table together: porridge, tea with lemon or mint, sometimes fresh berries from the market. Then Maths tutoringonline or in-person, depending on Margarets schedule. Afternoons were for practice papers, evenings for reviewing mistakes or calling other tutors.

Fatigue crept in. By the end of the second week, small things began to slipforgotten loaves of bread, the iron left on, sharp words over nothing. One evening at dinner, Oliver slammed his fork down. Why do you have to control everything? Im not a child!
She tried to explainshe just wanted to help him structure his time. But he only glared out the window.

By mid-summer, it was clear their old approach wasnt working. The tutors variedsome drilled memorisation, others set impossible tasks without guidance. Some days, Oliver came home looking wrecked. Shed watch him and ache with guilt: had she pushed too hard? The flat grew stifling, even with the windows open.

Twice, she suggested a walk or a day outjust to breathe. But it always spiralled into an argument: him scoffing at wasting time, her listing gaps in his knowledge and the weeks study plan.

Then, one evening, the dam broke. Olivers Maths tutor had given him a brutal mock exam. His score was worse than expected. He came home grey-faced and locked himself in his room. Later, Eleanor heard the soft creak of his door and stepped inside. Can we talk? she asked.
Silence. Then:
What if I fail again?
She sank onto the edge of his bed. Im scared for you too. But I see how hard youre trying.
He met her eyes. And if its still not enough?
Then well figure it out. Together.

They talked for nearly an hourabout the fear of falling short, about how tired they both were, about the absurdity of an exam system that felt like a never-ending race. They admitted the truth: chasing perfection was pointless. They needed a plan that fit their reality.

That night, they drafted a new schedulefewer study hours, time set aside for walks, promises to voice frustrations before they festered. Olivers window stayed open more often now, the evening air slow to chase out the days heat. After that conversation, the flat took on a fragile calm. Oliver pinned the new timetable to his wall, marking rest days in bright highlighter so they wouldnt forget.

At first, the rhythm felt unnatural. Eleanors fingers itched to check if hed done his mocks or called his tutors. But she stopped herself, remembering their talk. Evenings became short walks to the corner shop or laps around the estateno revision talk, just idle chatter. Oliver still came home drained, but the anger ebbed. He started asking for help with tough questionsnot out of fear, but because he knew shed listen without judgment.

Progress came quietly. One day, Margaret texted: Oliver solved two extended-response questions today. Hes learning from his mistakes. Eleanor read the message three times, smiling as if it were news of something far grander. At dinner, she mentioned it offhandno fuss, just acknowledgment. Oliver shrugged, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

The next victory was different: a high score on an English essay mock. He brought the paper to her himselfsomething he hadnt done in months. Instead of avoiding her gaze, he said softly, Think Im starting to get how to structure arguments. She nodded and squeezed his shoulder.

The flats atmosphere warmednot suddenly, but like the gradual shift from dawn to daylight. Berries appeared on the table for tea; sometimes they brought home tomatoes or cucumbers from the market stall by the tube. Dinners became less about revision checklists and more about school gossip or weekend plans.

Even their approach to studying changed. Mistakes were no longer disasters, but puzzles to solvesometimes with laughter. Once, Oliver scrawled a joke in the margin of a mock paper about the exam boards ludicrous wording. Eleanor laughed so hard he joined in.

Slowly, their conversations stretched beyond A-levelsfilms, the music on Olivers playlist, vague plans for September (no uni names yet, but the shape of an idea). They were relearning how to trust each other beyond textbooks.

The days grew shorter, the sun less fierce. The air carried the late-summer smell of cut grass and distant playground shouts. Sometimes Oliver went out alone or met mates by the school gatesEleanor let him go without worry, knowing the work would wait.

By mid-August, Eleanor realised she wasnt secretly checking his schedule at night. She believed him when he said hed studied. Oliver, too, bristled less at questions about his plans or requests to help around the flat. The old pressure had lifted.

One night, they sat by the open kitchen window with tea. If I get in Oliver began, then trailed off.
Eleanor smiled. If not, well find another way. Together.
He looked at her, serious. Thanks. For sticking with me through all this.
She waved him off. We stuck with each other.

They both knewthere was still work ahead, still uncertainty. But the fear of facing it alone was gone.

On the last days of August, mornings carried a crispness; the trees by the flat showed the first hints of yellow among the green. Oliver stacked textbooks for another session with Margaret. Eleanor filled the kettle for breakfastthe motions quieter now, easier.

Theyd already submitted his resit paperwork early, avoiding a last-minute scramble. That small step steadied them.

Now their days held more than timetables and to-do listsplans for evening strolls, grocery runs after Eleanors shifts. Sometimes they snapped over petty things or the grind of revision, but theyd learned to name the feeling before it festered.

By September, one thing was clear: whatever the next year brought, something fundamental had shifted in this house. Theyd become a team where before theyd struggled alone. They celebrated small wins instead of waiting for validation from grades or exam boards.

The future was still uncertainbut it was brighter for knowing neither of them would walk into it alone