The War is Over.

This story contains domestic abuse and death.

The War is Over

I can’t remember who said it, but someone once claimed the choices we make define us. If that’s true, then I’m a monster.

         I loved my mum and respected my dad, but for as long as I can remember, I’ve hated Friday nights. Mum worked in the sweet factory when she met Dad. He was the works engineer. The man who fixed everything. He fixed my mum good and proper. She was five months pregnant when they married, but then it takes two to tango.

         Mum kept the house spotless, and from the noise of the headboard hitting the wall, they got it together most nights. I worried about Dad. He seemed to do nothing but work, work, work. It wasn’t fair. He should learn to relax, take up a hobby, and read a book.

         On the rare occasions we went out as a family. Mum called it quality time. Dad held my hand, smiled, laughed. Mum linked her arm through his and sort of skipped along the pavement. For those precious moments, my world was very happy.

         The problems started one payday, the last Friday of the month. Dad began going to the pub with his workmates. At first, Mum didn’t mind; after all, he worked hard, and we wanted for nothing. Her pride in the house and in me, her little girl, was the niche in life she enjoyed.

         The first slamming of the door woke me. I glanced at my alarm clock. Almost midnight. Wide awake, I lay in bed listening to them shouting. What was happening to my family?

         Mum shouted. Dad shouted louder. A war of words. Both of them attacking each other like rabid dogs.

         Then the screaming started. Mum cried; Dad shouted, “You’d better watch yourself, woman.”

         Confused and in tears, I pushed my face hard into the pillow.

         Month end became my worst nightmare. They quarrelled until there was a gulf so wide it was impossible to bridge. With Mum screaming he was useless, Dad would storm up the stairs and sleep in the spare room. I’d hear him cry himself to sleep. Neither of them wanted to talk about it. To her, he had become a drunk. To him, she was no longer a loving wife.

         Mum was on the sofa, feet tucked under her, cup of tea on the armrest, the telly showing an old film.

         The front door banged open hard enough to rattle the letterbox. Dad stumbled in, tripping on the hall mat.

         Mum didn’t look up at first. She checked the clock on the mantelpiece.

         “I thought pubs closed at eleven,” she said, voice flat.

         Dad leaned on the wall, kicked off his shoes, missed the spot, and sent one skidding across the lino. “They do,” he muttered. “We stayed behind. Lock in.”

         “Did you have to?”

         For once, she didn’t shout. I think that made it worse.

         Dad swayed and grabbed the doorframe. “Don’t start.”

         “I’m not.”

         “You are.”

         “I’m watching my favourite film.”

         “Judge, jury and executioner, that’s who you are.”

         “I’m checking the time.”

         He laughed. “I think you forget I work all week. I fix everything. I deserve a break.”

         “You could always come home,” she said in a clear voice. “I deserve a husband, and your daughter deserves a father.”

         “I am.”

         “Not like this.”

         The sound from the telly filled the room.

         Dad’s voice rose. “I’m allowed a drink or two.”

         “It’s not the one or two, it’s the five or six until you can’t stand straight.”

         “I’m fine.”

         “You’re drunk.”

         He slammed his hand on the wall. “I’m fine!”

         I heard Mum’s breath catch, not from fear but frustration.

         That night I realised hurt makes a louder sound than shouting.

         I began to read the days like weather. Monday to Thursday: clear skies. Friday: changeable. Last Friday of the month: stormy. When they were talking, I couldn’t have been happier.

         I believed most people are good. But I felt powerless to change their lives. For me, the glass was always half full. I wanted to make them as they once were.

         This is my final year at school, and we have a choice of studies. I’ve chosen Maths, English, Environmental Science and Cookery.

         Our cookery trainer is a great teacher and, towards the end of term, had us prepare a menu for a dinner for two. We had a month to think about it, but whatever our decision, we were obliged to bring every ingredient.

         My menu was vegetable soup, followed by herbed chicken, minted potatoes, and mushrooms. For dessert, a simple trifle.

         My environmental studies included lessons on mushroom identification. I wanted to impress, and a few days before our cooking class I spent time in the local woods selecting and gathering the best and freshest fungi available. I walked slowly, basket swinging, the smell of damp leaves rising around me. My environmental science served me well as I noted cap shape, gill colour, and spore print.

         I found the safe ones, plump, golden chanterelles. A few puffballs like tiny moons.

Then I saw what I truly wanted. A cluster of pale caps under a fallen log, delicate as porcelain.

         These mushrooms didn’t shout. They didn’t cry. They didn’t slam doors or break hearts. They existed, doing what they were meant to do.

         I picked them as if they were precious.

         The woods didn’t judge me. They never had.

         The chicken, vegetables and herbs I sourced from a farm shop. I wanted this meal to be special.

         The afternoon spent preparing our meal went rather well. I even thought it looked good enough to eat.

         On my return home, I laid the table with the best plates and cutlery and reheated my offering for Mum and Dad’s dinner.

         When Dad walked in, he sniffed the air and said, “Something smells good.”

         To heighten the effect, I wore a small, frilly white apron and asked them to take their seats so I could serve.

         Both were hungry and acknowledged that the meal was the best they had eaten in a long while.

         Dad asked if I might prepare and cook a meal every week. He said it would help Mum and give me practice.

         The next morning, I knew they were at last safe from the perils of this world. No harm can come to them now. Hearts that used to beat and the verbal abuse and vindictive rows are over.

         Although every nerve in my body is tingling, I’m in control. There will always be a part of me still at their funeral, listening to the hymn The Lord is My Shepherd.

         The burial was brief. Two coffins, one hymn, a handful of witnesses.

         The plain‑clothes officer took my arm. “We’re due back at the station.”

         I nodded. “Will the detectives still want another interview?”

         “They always do.”

         I looked at the graves. “They fought every month. I just wanted it to stop.”

         The officer didn’t reply, but her grip tightened.

         As we reached the car, I said, “Tell them I’m ready to give my full statement now.”

         She paused. “All of it?”

         “All of it.”