The Peace Accord

23October2025

Dear Diary,

Ive been trying to keep this day stitched together in my head, and now it feels like the only way to make sense of it is to write it down, line by line.

Dad, please dont come round any more. Every time you leave, Mum starts sobbing, and the tears keep on coming until the early morning. I lie awake, drift off, wake up again, and shes still sniffling. I ask her, Mum, are you crying because of Dad? and she pretends its just a cold, that the sniffles are making her sound like a sprinkler. Im old enough to know a cold never sounds like someones heart is breaking.

The afternoon later finds us in a little café on the corner of Covent Garden. Dad sits across from me, stirring the lukewarm coffee in a dainty white cup with a tiny spoon. In front of me lies a little glass bowl that looks like a piece of artbright coloured truffles hidden beneath a tiny leaf and a single cherry, all drizzled in chocolate. Any sixyearold would have dived right in, but I held back. Last Friday Id decided I needed a serious chat with Dad, and Im not one to be swayed by sweets.

He sits quiet for a long spell, then finally says, What are we to do, my girl? Stop seeing each other altogether? How am I to live then?

I crinkle my nosejust like Mums, a little buttonshaped thingand after a moment I answer, No, Father. I cant manage without you either. Heres what well do: you ring Mum and tell her youll pick me up from nursery every Friday. Then we can wander around, have a coffee or some icecream if you like, and Ill fill you in on everything Mum and I get up to.

I pause, think it over, then add, And if you ever want to check on Mum, Ill snap a photo of her each week and send it to you. Does that sound alright?

Dad gives me a tiny smile, nods and says, Alright, well try that.

A wave of relief washes over me, and I turn back to my icecream. Yet the conversation isnt quite finished; theres still something I need to say. I run my tongue over the colourful sprinkles that have collected on my upper lip, and with a sudden seriousness I become almost adult, almost a woman who must look after the man in her lifeeven if that man is getting on a bit. Dads birthday was last week, and Id drawn him a big 28 card at nursery, painting it carefully with bright crayons.

My face hardens, my eyebrows knit together, and I say, I think you ought to think about getting married.

I add a soft lie, Youre not that old yet, after all.

Dad chuckles, Youll say the same about me, wont you?

I bounce on my heels, Not at all! Look, Uncle Sergeyhes been round the house twice already, a bit balding, you know? He

I point to my forehead, smoothing my soft curls with my hand, and Dads eyes narrow, as if Id just spilled Mums secret. I press both palms to my mouth, widen my eyes to show shock and confusion.

Uncle Sergey? Whos this Uncle Sergey that keeps turning up? Is he Mums boss or something? Dad says, louder than the café would normally allow.

I dont know, I stammer, feeling suddenly embarrassed. Maybe hes her boss. He brings us sweets, a cake for everyone, and

I glance at Mums fresh bouquet on the table, wondering whether I should share that bit of treasure with Dad, who already seems a little offkilter.

Dad folds his hands on the table, looks at them for a long while, and I sense that hes about to make a decision that could change everything. Ive learned that men can be slow on the uptake, and its often a womans job to nudge them in the right directionespecially when that woman happens to be the most cherished person in his life.

He sits silent for what feels like ages, then finally lets out a dramatic sigh, spreads his fingers wide, lifts his head, and begins to speak. If I were older, I might have recognised the gravitas of his tonethe same weight that Shakespeare gave Othello when he confessed his love to Desdemona. But Im still too young to have read those plays; Im simply gathering life lessons from watching people love and argue over the smallest things.

So, he says, lets go, love. Its getting late; Ill take you home and, while were at it, Ill have a word with Mum.

I didnt ask what he intended to discuss, but I could tell it was important. I hurried my icecream, feeling the chill of the treat melt away as a stronger feeling rose inside me. I slammed my spoon down, slid off the chair, wiped my sticky lips with the back of my hand, and, looking straight at Dad, said, Im ready. Lets go.

We didnt stroll home; we nearly ran. Dad was the one sprinting, but he kept a firm grip on my hand, and I felt like a banner fluttering in the wind, just as Prince Andrew Bolkonsky once held his flagpole high while leading his troops into battle.

When we burst into the lift lobby, the doors shut with a soft sigh, carrying a neighbour upwards. Dad glanced at me, a little bewildered, and I looked up at him, steady, and asked, So? What are we waiting for? The lifts only on the seventh floor, you know.

He scooped me up in his arms and bolted up the staircase. When at last the lift doors opened and Mum stood there, arms wide, Dad shouted, You cant justwhat about Sergey? I love you, you know that. And theres theres Ethel

He wrapped his arms around Mum, pulling her close, while I clung to both of them, squeezing their necks, eyes shut tight. The grownups were about to kiss, and the whole world seemed to pause for a heartbeat.

Now, as I write this, the house is quiet again. Mum has gone to the kitchen, Dad is humming something low, and Im left with the lingering taste of chocolate and the echo of that days promises. I think I understand a little more about how adults try to hold everything together, even when theyre not quite sure what theyre doing themselves.

Until tomorrow,

Ethel.