It was 8:43 AM. I was in my pyjama bottoms disguised as joggers, wearing a hoodie with an unidentifiable smear across the chest and hair that could legally be declared a fire hazard. The kind of outfit that says: I’ve given up but in a cosy way.
We’d forgotten the lunchbox. Correction: I had forgotten the lunchbox. My son, ever the realist, shrugged and said “I’ll just eat someone else’s.” Which—no. Not again. Not after The Muffin Incident.
So I drove back home, grabbed the lunchbox (and three unmatched socks and a Pokémon card, no idea why), then marched into school reception like some deranged, over-caffeinated courier. Breathless. Sweaty. Radiating mild panic and almond croissant fumes.
And there he was.
Mr. Dalton.
The Head.
Standing near reception like a bloody romcom plot twist.
Now, he’s not my type. At all.
Too clean. Too organised. The kind of man who probably owns one of those drawer organisers with compartments for paperclips.
But in that moment, I lost the ability to behave like a normal adult human.
“L-l-lunch delivery,” I stammered.
Lunch delivery?
Who says that?
He smiled. Friendly, polite, like someone who reads actual books and composts responsibly.
“Ah, thank you. Saves the day again,” he said.
And instead of just nodding and leaving like a sane person, I laughed. Too loud. The kind of laugh that makes birds leave trees.
Then I said it.
“Oh, I love your handwriting.”
His… what?
His handwriting?
He’d just signed something. I saw it out the corner of my eye. My brain latched onto it like a panic octopus.
“Very… um… bold. Confident. Like, a bold slant. Masculine cursive?”
He blinked. I blinked. A tumbleweed rolled across the reception desk.
“Right,” he said slowly.
I could feel my soul trying to backflip out of my body.
I nodded too much, spun on my heel and walked straight into the doorframe.
Didn’t even hurt. I was too numb. Emotionally and spiritually.
Every school run since then has been a tactical operation. I time drop-off like a ninja. I’ve memorised his schedule. If I see his car in the car park, I loop the long way around like I’m trying to outflank a military convoy.
But the worst part?
My son now refers to him as “Mum’s boyfriend”
And no amount of denial will convince him otherwise.
Parenting is hard.
Embarrassment is eternal.