The rain bounced off the pavement and dripped off my hood. At least I was wearing a hood. A coat. Clothes. My mother was in a Skittles-red swimsuit on one side of me, and my father was in liquorice-black trunks on the other. My disgust at this situation was growing with every step I took. It could only get worse the busier it got. Thankfully, it was only 8AM and pretty dead. Because why would there be life here on a Saturday morning? In the rain. In the morning. On Saturday. No one could spot me in my dark attire anyway. But still. The risk of anyone seeing me with these two was abhorrent.

Their bare feet sloshed through the shivering puddles, and although our silence was louder than the raindrops hitting car roofs, it was our silence. And that was the only reason on earth that I was playing piggy in the middle to these crazy parents. Because ‘our’ had become ‘my’ in the last few months. Talks of separation when they thought I was up in my room. Raised voices by the raised flowerbeds, choppy tones by the chopping boards, fiery stares by the fireplace. It was obvious. And yet they hadn’t said a word to me. 

So, I booked us for a morning swim at the open-air pool. Where we used to go when I was little. I did not bank on the same outrageous behaviour as before. Everyone brings clothes to change into after a swim. Especially in October. It’s cold. It’s October. In the morning. Swimming. But, as I said, at least we were together. And the swim wasn’t bad. We glided through the water individually, back and forth, back and forth, with a few breathless words at the end of each lap. It’s all I could’ve expected. I peered at Mum, who strode with a confidence I don’t think I could ever muster wearing so little material outside, and at Dad, who didn’t seem to care that a dog walker was frowning at his ‘showy’ package for all the world to see. How embarrassing.

The sudden flapping of wings shattered the silence. An old couple with umbrellas threw seeds on the ground right next to us, and we all ducked as the squawking seagulls pelted our way.

‘Goodness gracious!’ Mum sloshed through the puddle, her wobbling bum escaping her swimsuit.

‘Julia, watch out for that one!’ Dad threw his hand in the air like he was preparing to protect the last of his species.

‘Oh, Peter, be careful,’ she gasped.

I stifled a laugh, my eyes tearing up with hilarity as a hungry gull darted to Dad’s feet and began pecking at his toes.

‘Get off, you imbecile!’

I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I burst into laughter, and when Mum saw what was happening, she clutched her chest, probably so her boobs didn’t also make a prison-break, and let out a hearty laugh that seemed almost forgotten. 

Once Dad managed to kick the gull away and chased after us, his snug trunks blinding me, he shook his head, grabbed Mum by the waist, hoisted her over his shoulder, and dashed off the wall into the sea with her. She shrieked so loudly that the old couple didn’t notice the seagulls had dived into their seed bag and snatched it away.

I stood there, watching them – these fools in love – and hoped beyond all hope that this very early, very wet morning would be that cold bucket of water over their marriage that they needed. That they would wake up and remember: It’s ‘our’, not ‘my’. It’s ‘us’.