“We’re just talking normally… but it’s not just the grown-ups listening.”
“Nikolas, what did I ask you to do? Buy bread! Where is it?!” Lillian snapped from the doorway, irritation sharp in her voice.
Her husband, slouched in his armchair and glued to his phone screen, slowly looked up.
“Forgot. What now?”
“Forgot,” she mimicked. “So we’re having dinner without bread, then? And what am I supposed to put butter on in the morning?”
“You could’ve got it yourself,” he muttered defensively. “You walked right past the shop.”
“Oh, of course, me again. I clean, I cook, I run after Oliver, I work—and somehow, the bread is still my job? What’s your salary and two legs for, Nikolas?”
“Not going out again, clear?”
“Fine. Stay hungry. See if I care.”
The Melvilles’ daily verbal skirmishes had long stopped counting as proper rows. Just another evening—raised voices, a few cutting remarks, then back to dinner as if nothing happened.
But it wasn’t always like this.
Seven years ago, Lillian and Nikolas were the couple their friends envied. Young, smitten, tender—the kind who met at uni but properly fell for each other over a chance reunion in Waterstones. First came coffee dates, then dinners. Nikolas brought flowers for no reason; Lillian cooked his favourite meals even after gruelling shifts. They holidayed in the Lake District, naively believing life would always be this sweet.
Then came the wedding. Just the two of them at first, blissfully domestic. Then Oliver arrived, and something shifted. Quietly, like ink seeping into paper—no more surprises, no midnight talks, no lazy Sunday strolls. Just routine. Lillian, homebound; Nikolas, overworked. He came home irritable; she met him with exhaustion. The word “before” crept into her thoughts more often.
Rows became clockwork. He bristled at her critiques; she seethed at his detachment. Snide remarks escalated to full-blown battles. Oliver grew older, started nursery. Lillian returned to work—breathing room at last. But the bickering remained, so habitual neither noticed how casually they wielded words that should’ve stung.
Until one evening.
“Mum, were you and Dad arguing again?” Oliver piped up over spaghetti. “You said you were just talking normally…”
“We *were* just talking,” Lillian forced a smile. “Dad forgot the bread. I reminded him.”
“But you said you have to do *everything*. And Dad said you’re always cross,” Oliver recited, solemn as a judge.
Nikolas studied his plate. Lillian’s fork froze mid-air. Neither had realised their script had become their son’s blueprint.
Days later, at pick-up, Oliver’s teacher pulled Lillian aside.
“Mrs. Melville, got a moment?”
Lillian braced for the usual—school trip money, costume drama. But the teacher’s frown was unreadable.
“Oliver’s a lovely boy. But lately, he’s been speaking to the others… like an adult. Sharp tones, accusations. Today, playing house, he shouted at Sophie: ‘Did you even *buy* bread? I’ve had a long day!'”
Lillian’s throat tightened.
“Yesterday, with Max—yelled that he was ‘too slow’, that they’d ‘be late because of him’. Even snapped, ‘I won’t talk to you until you calm down.'”
“He doesn’t mean it,” Lillian whispered.
“Of course not. But children mirror what they see. You and your husband might not notice, but to him? This *is* how families speak.”
On the walk home, Lillian’s cheeks burned. How many rows had Oliver witnessed? How many barbs had he absorbed, thinking cruelty was just… conversation?
Oliver held her hand extra tight that evening. For once, Lillian didn’t rush him indoors.
“Mum, don’t we need to make dinner?”
“Pizza tonight. Let’s just… walk, okay?”
His disbelieving jump of joy cracked her heart wide open.
When Nikolas came home, braced for another round, he found tea, a blanket, silence.
“Everything alright?” he finally asked.
Lillian shut the kitchen door and told him—about the teacher, about Oliver’s imitation of their worst selves.
“We have to change. Now,” she said.
“I don’t *mean* it. You know I love you. We’re just… tired. We forgot who we were.”
“Then let’s remember,” she said.
They made rules. Weekends were for adventures—parks, cinema, aimless drives. Friday nights meant films under one blanket, popcorn fights, no phones. At first, it felt forced. Then, gradually, it didn’t.
Lillian smiled more. Nikolas stopped grumbling. Even took the bins out—unprompted. They asked, “How was your day?” and actually listened.
And Oliver? The teacher noted it first: gentler, kinder, no more shouting. Lillian could’ve hugged her.
Now, when their home hummed with laughter and the scent of hot chocolate, Lillian remembered how easily they’d ruined things—and how fiercely they’d fixed them.
Because children don’t just listen. They copy. And when we snap, “We’re just talking,” what they hear is: *This is how love sounds.*
