Today is Anthriscus sylvestris—Ravenswing or Cow Parsley to everyone else. It sneaks out from the cracks in the neighbour’s low stone wall, peering through the crumbling mortar and over the craggy side with deep purple leaves, and pink-tinged flowers.

I pluck a thin stem and admire the small blooms, telling each flower everything that happened today—my last day at primary school. I have nothing particularly noteworthy to confess, and equally, nothing special or memorable to tell the delicate flowers, but I still murmur to the tiny blooms about each part of my day.

I whisper the details in low tones—how I said goodbye to my teachers, how many of my friends are going to different schools next year, and how the thought of going to a big high school worries me because I don't fit in like everyone else.

Before I reach the crooked and cracked steps that lead to my front door, I take out my scrapbook and place the cow parsley between two crisp new sheets of white paper.

I've told the events of my day to the delicate flowers, and they will keep my secrets for me. It's something I've done since I was very small, and I think it's something I will always do. Flowers are more than my friends, they’re my confidantes.

With my precious book clutched to my chest, my feet hit the old flagstone slabs of our front garden path, and I take a deep breath. The air smells different today. It feels like the world is on the brink of something. Summer break’s approach maybe or something else—something that’s nothing to do with the heat or the upcoming six weeks of free time, and the carefree anticipation of an endless summer. Whatever it is, it's impossible to tell, but every cell in my body recognises the difference, and my muscles threaten to tense in apprehension.

Our small terraced house beckons me, and I hitch my floral-patterned satchel over my head before pushing the gate open. Metal screams against metal, and the wobbly fence on top of our low stone wall sways as I wind my way across our wild and unruly front garden. My gaze follows the curtain of Hydrangea petiolaris—climbing hydrangea—that curls up the front of our old house's facade. It makes our small and almost forgettable looking house feel more like a home. It comforts me to know that this house has been here for well over a hundred years and will likely still be here for a hundred years more, and I can’t help but feel our modest home is more welcoming than the row of terraced houses connected to us on either side. The cheerful red painted door begs you to open it and walk in, inviting you into its warmth, and the open sash windows give a peek into a home that is my safe haven. We may not live somewhere grand or fancy, but it's special. So very special.

When I do push the front door open, something's off, I can feel it. That difference in the air thickens and grows stronger, and my instincts tell me it’s a wrongness, a warning. A noise from the living room pulls my feet forward, and I accelerate towards it. My older brother Rhys sits on the carpeted floor with his back against the sofa and his head in his hands, and despite hearing my entrance, he doesn’t move or even flinch. I drop my pretty satchel onto the comfy and well-used leather settee, and it hits the seat with a dull thud, but Rhys still doesn't move.

What's happened?

I take a seat on one of the matching leather armchairs—the one that Dad prefers to sit on to watch the rugby on TV, the one with a dip in the seat cushion—and wait for him to speak.

Rhys and I look alike. We have the same eyes. Bright blue with specks of grey, but his have more flecks than mine.

When he finally lifts his head to look at me, the resemblance we share fades. He looks different. Older. His mouth opens and shuts like a goldfish that’s jumped out of its bowl and is suffocating in the open air. But nothing comes out. No words. No sounds.

My heart frantically beats in my chest, tripping over itself and catching at my breath.

"Did something bad happen? Did someone get hurt?" Oh, my God. "Is it worse than that?”

Please tell me that nobody has died.

He shakes his head, and my next deep but trembling breath doesn't pinch at my lungs as much as the one before.

If it’s not worse than that, we can deal with anything else. Death is finite; all other problems can be solved and made better.

Maybe it's something to do with school. Rhys is two years older than me. Maybe he’s been given a huge summer assignment or had an argument with one of his friends. Maybe he’s been dropped from the team?

Rhys blinks heavily. His eyes are weary, but he's trying hard to recover his control. He finally looks at me with eyes so desolate, I feel my heart clench. Blue meets blue, and the sadness in their depths stretches way past the grey flecks, and has my stomach churning.

"This isn't home anymore, Fflur," he says.

The use of my name instead of my nickname adds a heavy weight to his words. Whatever is upsetting him is serious.

"What? I— I don’t understand." I whisper, needing truth but unable to prepare myself for the unknown despair in his eyes.

The volume of his voice rises, and furious words choke out from his throat. "It means nothing is the same, Flower. Nothing. It means we are broken. She broke us." He points angrily towards the hallway and the empty doorway.

His words don't make any sense. Try as I might, my brain can’t process their meaning.

My entire world tilts and sways as he opens and closes his mouth a few times, starting and stopping and delaying my despair before saying, "Mum and Dad are splitting up and getting divorced."

The “No” from my lips is emphatic. My head shaking wildly from side to side. “You must be wrong."

He must be wrong.

"I’m not. Mum has another man. I overheard it all. Them arguing in the kitchen. Dad storming out. I heard every word."

"No."

I can feel the ground rise to meet me, and I want to tilt myself into its path.

"Don't you get it?" he continues, anger turning his face a blotchy red. "She’s a liar. She’s been living with them as well as us for years. But now she’s decided we’re not good enough. She's leaving us for him. For them."

"I don’t understand? Rhys, you’re not making any sense."

My words are frail, like delicate spider webs caught between one leaf and another as a sharp, cold wind stretches them to snap.

"Mum's job didn't need her to work away every few weeks. She doesn't work in England managing another office. She spends that time with him. With them.”

Them?

For as long as I can remember, Mum has always worked away. Sometimes a week, sometimes two, but she always comes back. Back to us.

"She's leaving because she’s pregnant and that’s something even she can’t hide."

Those fragile webs snap, the delicate strands whip and tangle and shred apart on the harsh breeze.

"He has a son already, the same age as me, and now she's pregnant with his baby."

I recoil from Rhys and his words.

This is a dream. A really bad dream.

"Mum has another son? Does that mean we've got a brother?"

"No. He’s not our brother,” Rhys spits. His hatred for someone he doesn’t even know twisting his face and curling his lips.

“But the baby will be? And it’s not Dad’s?”

None of this makes any sense.

Rhys stares at me with fury etched across his features and his voice cracks when he declares, “I'm staying here with Dad and I never want to see her again. I hate her. I fucking hate her. And I hate them. All of them."

Movement from the doorway catches my eye. When I turn my head, I see Mum standing there. I don’t know if she heard everything Rhys told me, but her face is pale and pinched with hurt. Deep pain and regret reflects in her watery gaze. Her eyes so much like ours—like mine and my brother’s—bright blue with flecks of grey.

We were made in her image, but I don't know how much longer we will call her Mum. She’s abandoning us.

Her arms are wrapped tightly around her middle and I’ve never seen Mum look so small, so lost. She has always taken care of herself and goes to yoga three times a week. Now, I wonder if she ever did yoga at all. She’s pretty, beautiful even—people say I could be her little sister, not her daughter—and she doesn't look her age.

Her skin is clear and smooth, apart from some faint laughter lines at the edges of her blue eyes. I'd like to think we are responsible for all the smiles that caused those lines, but now I can't be sure. Now I look at her and wonder how many of those lines bracketing her eyes—ones just like mine—weren’t because of us at all.

Mum looks from me to Rhys, and the raw sadness on her face sucks away any hope I had left.

It’s all true. Every horrible word.

"Fflur," she says. Not Flower. My real name wraps around my heart like a fist. Never before has it sounded like a curse. Until today.

I look from Mum to Rhys and back again and I feel like they are waiting for me to decide. Waiting for me to pick a side. The urge to run away from here—away from this choice—from them, pulls at my restless feet. I want to find more flowers to tell my secrets. I need to unburden all this confusion and hurt in the only way I know how.

I look at Rhys, then at my mother. Each beat of my heart echoes in my head, reverberating as it hits my skull, and telling me to decide where my loyalties lie.

It’s like picking a team in sports.

Pick me.

Me.

Me.

Only this isn’t a game.

It’s what’s left of my life.