The Imperfect Family

“You’ve got to hear what happened that night,” I started, laughing a little as I recalled it. Mum was practically hissing at us the moment we squeezed into our ancient ’89 Ford Escort. “You’ve been watching the whole thing, haven’t you? Spinning round that blonde in the red dress all evening!”

Jack and I exchanged a glance. I hadn’t noticed anything, and Jack later swore up and down that Dad was just being polite to a guest.

That night stuck with me forever. We were driving back from a birthday bash for one of Dad’s old university mates, and the darkness was in full swing. The stars glittered like silver confetti across the black velvet sky. Dad, who usually jokes and hums while he drives, was oddly quiet he was on medication that meant not a drop of alcohol was allowed. Apparently, that forced sobriety didnt stop him, according to Mum, from “making eyes” at some young lady.

“Emily, stop making up stories,” Dad said wearily, turning the key. “That’s Claire we graduated together. Just an old friend.”

Mum wasn’t having it. The dashboard lights threw her face into a strange glow, and she kept demanding we pull over, stepping out onto the roadside flanked by fresh pine saplings. Each time Dad followed, and their silhouettes melted into the night. Once I caught a glimpse of them facing each other, Dad waving his arms like a man trying to prove something hot.

While the adults sort out their drama, Jack and I started an Easteregg battle. Grandma had dyed the shells in onion skins, giving them a darkgold hue with wild streaks.

“My egg’s tougher!” Jack bragged when his stayed whole again. “Just you wait, it’ll smash the rest!”

When Mum and Dad got back, a heavy silence settled over the car. We drove in silence for about five minutes, only the wind whistling through the cracked windows. Mum sat curled up, her shoulders trembling.

“Dont you go off on a mad one, you old cow!” she snapped, as if a dam had burst.

And thenboomshe let loose everything. She rattled off Dad’s endless business trips, his late nights at the office, even the way he stared at the waitress in that little café three years back. Words like “hate,” “ruined my whole life,” “youre moving back to Mum,” and the ominous “divorce” hung in the air like shattered glass.

Dad mostly stayed quiet, occasionally throwing out a “Calm down” or “Youre blowing this out of proportion.” The expression on his facethat furrowed brow and pressed lipsalways seemed to set Mum off.

Suddenly the car lurched, coughed, and died. Dad twisted the ignition, but only a wheezy sound answered.

“Bloody hell!” Dad slammed his hand on the steering wheel. “Brilliant! Just perfect!”

Mum fell silent in an instant. Her anger melted into panic.

“Whats happened?” she asked, her voice shaking.

“I dont know. The engines dead and wont turn over.”

Dad got out, popped the bonnet. I pressed my face to the window. We were wedged between the last village and our little town of Bramley, its lights flickering on a hill in the distance. On either side of the road the pine woods grew darker. I remembered how we’d been gathering woodlice there last autumn, hidden in the amber pine needles, slick and smelling of forest.

“The carburettors clogged, I think,” Dad muttered, heading back inside. “Well need to find help.”

“Im not staying here alone!” Mum grabbed my hand. “Its too dark, too scary.”

We started walking toward the village that merges into the suburb. Dad knocked on the first garden gate with a light on. A man in a greasy jacket opened the door.

“Need a hand?” he rasped.

While Dad explained, Mum spotted a lit church a short way off.

“Well wait for you there,” she told Dad. “Its brighter in a church, and not as frightening.”

We didnt go to church much. Mum called herself a believer, but she only turned to God in the toughest moments. Dad was a fullon atheist, calling religion “a relic of the past.”

Inside, the church was bright and solemn. People packed the pews, incense mingled with the smell of fresh scones. Choir voices rose high, drifting up to the vaulted ceiling. Mum bought three thin wax candles at the entrance.

“Lets light them and pray,” she whispered. “Ask for some help.”

“How do you pray?” Jack asked.

“Just speak from the heart,” Mum replied, wrapping a white scarf around her neck.

I watched Mum step up to the big icon of the Virgin Mary, pause, and whisper something low. The candlelight made her face look peaceful, all the anger gone.

I tried to pray too, but I wasnt sure where to start. Should I ask for the car to be fixed? That felt too petty for God. So I simply wished, deep down, for Mum and Dad to fall in love again, for our house to feel calm and bright.

When I opened my eyes, Jack was gone.

“Mum, wheres Jack?” I asked.

We pushed through the crowd, looking for him. Twenty minutes slipped by, panic rising. Mum was about to sprint after Dad when, at the doorway, we saw a familiar sightDad emerging, Jack in his arms, a crumpled gingerbread tin clutched tight.

“Where did you find him?” Mum rushed over.

“He was at the church shop, eyeing the biscuits,” Dad smiled. “The cars already started.”

“What? You said”

“I dont know, love. Honestly. The bloke we met fetched a rope, I sat in the drivers seat, turned the key, and it roared back to life like nothing ever happened.”

We stepped out of the church. Our ’89 Escort was parked right there, a thin wisp of steam curling from the exhaust.

“Easter miracle,” Mum breathed, crossing herself.

We drove home. The interior smelled of pine sap and oil. Mum stared out the window at the passing lights, then rested her hand on the gear lever. Dad glanced at her, then, slowly, almost hesitantly, covered her hand with his.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“You too,” Mum replied.

Dad lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. They held hands for the rest of the ride, letting go just long enough for Dad to shift gears before finding her again in the dim cabin.

Jack dozed on the back seat, and I watched the road disappear, thinking that sometimes, even on an ordinary evening, real miracles do happen with ordinary people.