The email arrived weeks ago.
Cheerful subject line. Exclamation mark.
“Christmas Concert Information!”
I skimmed it. Not properly. The way you skim when you already know December is going to win anyway. Costume. Arrival time. Something about filming. Something about being seated early, or on time, or earlier than that.
Another email came. Then a reminder. I meant to deal with it later. Later arrived very fast.
That afternoon was the usual kind of chaos. Not dramatic, just relentless. The tights were wrong, even though they were the same ones. The top was itchy. The snack was the wrong snack, despite being chosen with confidence ten minutes earlier. The car felt too loud. I turned the radio off halfway through a sentence.
We got there early because the email said early. Or I think it did. Everyone else had the same idea. The hall was already full of coats, bags, parents doing that strained smile that says I’m fine, this is fine.
Then came the seating.
No one explains how complicated chairs become when you’re co-parenting. You walk into a room and suddenly there are rules no one’s written down. Where you sit. How close is neutral. Who films. Who doesn’t. Whether eye contact is friendly or loaded.
We hadn’t talked about any of it. That was obvious.
We did the nod. The quick smile. The thing where you both pretend the chairs are interesting so the other person can choose first. I sat down and immediately realised the chair was too small and too close to the woman next to me, who was already crying and the concert hadn’t even started.
The lights dimmed. Children shuffled. Someone dropped a recorder and there was a ripple of nervous laughter.
Then I saw her. Slightly out of line. Scanning the room without moving her head. When she spotted me, she straightened. Just a bit. Like a switch had flipped.
That’s when it hit. Not in a big way. Just a sudden tightness behind the eyes. I hid behind the programme and hoped no one was looking.
The microphone screeched. Half the children jumped. I leaned forward without meaning to, like that might help. Somewhere near the front, a parent held an iPad above their head for the entire performance. Their arms must have been killing them.
Afterwards was worse.
Noise. Bodies. Everyone trying to collect their own child while also filming them and congratulating them and asking what they wanted to do next. We hovered. We both wanted a photo. Neither of us wanted to negotiate it there, with everyone watching.
We managed one. A quick one. Then it was done.
In the car she talked the whole way home. About the song. The lights. How loud it was. How she forgot one word but no one noticed. I listened. I didn’t interrupt. I let it empty out of her.
Back home, pyjamas appeared almost instantly. Leftovers eaten off laps. Glitter still stuck to her sleeve.
When the house finally went quiet, I realised how tight my shoulders had been all evening. How tired I was in a way that had nothing to do with the time.
I’ve learned a few things about these events, though I still forget half of them every year. I bring tissues now. I charge my phone even when I swear I won’t film. I pack snacks and then apologise about them. I tell her exactly what will happen before we arrive, and I make sure she knows she can leave if it’s too much.
What I’ve stopped doing is trying to make it smooth.
It wasn’t smooth. It was awkward and loud and emotional in that very public way. But she stood up there. She sang. She looked for me and found me.
That was enough.