**Thursday, 15th June**
We tell ourselves it’s just talk… but ears far younger than ours are listening.
“Oliver, what did I ask you to do? Pick up bread! Where is it?” Sophie snapped from the doorway, arms crossed.
Her husband, slumped in his armchair, eyes glued to his phone, glanced up lazily.
“Forgot. What now?”
“Oh, forgot, did you?” she mocked. “So what, we eat dinner without bread? And what about toast in the morning?”
“You could’ve got it yourself,” he grumbled. “You passed the shop on your way home.”
“Oh, brilliant. So I clean, cook, chase after the kids, work all day—and now bread’s my job too? What’s your paycheck and two legs for, then?”
“Not going back out now, so drop it.”
“Fine. Go hungry. See if I care.”
Rows like this in the Hargreaves household were almost daily. They barely registered as arguments anymore—just bursts of sharp words over nothing, then back to dinner as if nothing happened.
But it wasn’t always this way.
Seven years ago, Sophie and Oliver were *that* couple. The ones all their mates envied—young, smitten, inseparable. Met at uni but only grew close after bumping into each other at Waterstones. First date led to a second; he brought her flowers for no reason, she made him dinner after the longest shifts. They holidayed in the Lake District, dreaming foolishly that life would always feel that light.
Then came the wedding. For a while, it *was* like the films—just the two of them, wrapped up in their own little world. Until baby Alfie arrived.
Slowly, the cracks crept in. No more surprises, late-night chats, or spontaneous walks. Just monotony—Sophie stuck at home, Oliver buried in work, coming back too knackered to talk. She’d snap; he’d sulk. The bickering started small—jabs about laundry, who forgot the milk—then spiralled into full-blown rows. By the time Alfie started nursery and Sophie went back to work, the damage was done. The fights had become habit, the jabs automatic.
Until the day everything shifted.
“Mum… were you and Dad arguing again?” Alfie whispered at dinner. “You said you were just talking.”
“We *were* just talking,” Sophie lied, forcing a smile. “Daddy forgot the bread, that’s all.”
“But you said you do everything. And Dad said you’re always cross,” Alfie said bluntly.
Oliver looked down. Sophie’s fork hovered mid-air. Neither had noticed how their words had built their son’s world.
Two days later, at pick-up, Alfie’s teacher pulled her aside.
“Mrs Hargreaves, a quick word?” Sophie braced for fundraiser talk—until she saw the woman’s face.
“Alfie’s a lovely boy. But lately, he’s been speaking to the other children… like an adult. Sharp. Today, playing ‘house’, he shouted at Emily: *‘Did you even get bread? I’m tired, you know!’*”
Sophie’s stomach dropped.
“Yesterday, he told Liam he was *‘too slow’* and they’d be late because of him. Then he said—word for word—*‘I won’t talk to you till you calm down.’*”
“He doesn’t mean it,” Sophie whispered.
“Of course not. But children mirror what they see. You and your husband might not realise… but to him, this *is* normal.”
Walking home, Sophie cried silently. How many times had Alfie heard their sniping? Their sighs, their *“Fine, do it yourself”*?
That evening, Alfie clung to her hand tighter than usual. For once, Sophie didn’t hurry him.
“Mum, don’t you need to cook dinner?”
“Pizza tonight. Let’s just walk, yeah?”
His face lit up. She hadn’t seen him so chuffed in months.
When Oliver got home, braced for another round, Sophie just handed him tea. Quiet.
“What’s going on?” he finally asked.
She shut the kitchen door and told him everything. About Alfie. About the scraps of their marriage he’d stitched into his own little world.
“We have to change. Now,” she said.
“I don’t mean half the stuff I say. You know I love you. We’re just… tired. We forgot who we were.”
“Then let’s remember.”
They made rules. Weekends were for the three of them—parks, films, drives. Friday nights: blankets, popcorn, proper cuddles on the sofa. First as a promise, then because they *wanted* to.
Sophie smiled more. Oliver stopped griping. Even took the bins out without being asked. They started asking *“How was your day?”*—and actually *listening*.
And Alfie? No more shouting at his toys. His teacher smiled, said he’d softened, become gentler. Sophie could’ve hugged her.
Now, when the house hums with laughter and the smell of hot chocolate, Sophie thinks of how easily families break… and how hard, how vital it is to mend them.
Because children don’t learn by listening. They learn by copying. And when we snap *“We’re just talking”*, they don’t hear an excuse.
They hear a blueprint.
