Mum sat on the windy beach, doing her best to keep the blanket she’d spread across the sand from taking flight. Somewhere in her early forties, she had a warm, open face that was far more lined than it should be for her years.

  Life had rarely been easy; most of it had been spent scraping by, trying to make ends meet and putting others first.

  Just recently, she had found the strength to say no. After eleven years of trying to be what someone else wanted, she had walked away—leaving her husband and taking her son, Chris, with her.

  It hadn’t been a clean break. He’d made the split difficult, drawn-out, and cruel in small, deliberate ways. She’d faltered more than once—but with her mother’s strong support, she finally pushed through. She had nothing much left—no savings, no furniture, not much of a car—but she had Chris.

  And for the first time in years, a chance to breathe.

  Mum had scrimped and saved to afford the little holiday to Newquay, Cornwall. It was cold, grey, and windy, and she felt guilty that she couldn’t afford a holiday for Chris in the summer season. But it was something.

  “He’ll catch his death in that freezing water,” said Nana, dragging open a folding chair with effort and flopping it onto the sand. The blanket bucked again in the breeze, the corners threatening to take off skyward. Mum found some nearby pebbles and added them to the ones already weighing it down.

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  “I know. Sorry, Mum,” she said, and, reaching into her bag, she brought out two cheese and tomato sandwiches. She handed one to Nana as they watched Chris scamper about in the distance.

  “Brrr.” Nana half-smiled, munching on her sandwich. “Let’s just not stay too long. Did you see his eyes light up when we passed that arcade? It’s nice and warm inside.”

  “I know,” Mum replied, her eyes still on her son. “Let’s wait a bit. Let him have fun with his net—look at him, he’s not bothered by the cold at all.”

  Nana laughed. “Kids! Just a shame it’s so bally cold for us oldies!”

  The pair lapsed into silence, listening to the sea and watching Chris, who was completely absorbed—clambering from rock to rock in his search for crabs or fish or anything in the rock pools.

  Chris was ten and a delicate-looking boy—soft, friendly features, white-blond hair, and not yet through the growth spurt that all children eventually hit. One of those kids adults instinctively warm to. Polite, curious, shy, but always kind. Mum sometimes worried the world might be too mean for a child like him. On those days, she was glad Chris had his dad—a builder, confident, a man’s man. He might be cruel to Mum, but he’d always been there for his son.

  Chris clambered over the rocks with his fishing net—a long one, attached to a metre-long pole. With a mix of careful and careless steps, he jumped from rock to rock, searching the pools, peering in, lifting bits of seaweed, watching, waiting. A crab scuttled across the sand into a deeper pool. Chris followed, crouching down at the edge, studying it—never intending to catch or harm.

  He was having fun. He’d never seen a beach like this—wide open, stretching on forever, caves and rock pools and beach huts. So much to explore. The cold didn’t bother him at all.