It was a chilly Tuesday morning in Dublin, and Flora Ross sat at her kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea that had long gone cold. She stared blankly at the stringless guitar leaning against the corner of the room—a failed attempt at bonding with her teenage son, Max. The guitar had been one of her wild ideas, bought impulsively after a late-night scroll through Instagram, where everyone seemed to have their lives together except her. Now, it stood as another reminder of the chaos she was living.
Max stormed into the kitchen, his headphones blaring some incomprehensible mix of electronic beats and what Flora could only describe as someone growling into a mic. He barely glanced at her as he rummaged through the fridge.
"Good morning to you too, sunshine," Flora said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Max slammed the fridge door. "There's no cereal."
"You ate it all yesterday," she retorted. "And you're old enough to write cereal on the grocery list if you're so desperate."
Max rolled his eyes. "Whatever."
"Don't 'whatever' me, Max. I'm not your maid." Flora sighed, running her hands through her unkempt hair. "Can you at least talk to me? Properly? Like, say one thing that isn't a grunt or an insult?"
Max shoved his headphones back on. "I'm going to Ian's," he muttered, walking toward the door.
Flora's stomach dropped. "What's Ian going to do, huh? Be your dad for the day?"
He didn't respond. He slammed the door so hard the cheap photo frames on the wall rattled. Flora stared after him, biting her lip. She hated when she brought Ian into it. But God, she hated how much Ian wasn't in it.
Later that afternoon, Flora found herself standing outside Ian's place. She didn't plan to come here—it just sort of happened after a long walk to "clear her head." But here she was, staring at the peeling paint of Ian's door. She hesitated before knocking, but when the door swung open, Ian looked like he had been expecting trouble.
"Flora," he said flatly, leaning against the doorframe. "What is it now?"
"Hello to you too, Ian," Flora replied, forcing a smile. "Can we talk? About Max?"
Ian crossed his arms. "What about him?"
Flora stepped inside, brushing past him. "What about him? Are you serious? He's angry all the time, Ian. Angry at me. At school. At the world. And do you know why? Because you left. Because he doesn't have his dad around!"
Ian sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Flora, I didn't leave. We're divorced. It's not the same thing."
"It is to Max!" Flora's voice cracked. "You think it's easy for him, bouncing between houses like a bloody tennis ball? And what about me, huh? Do you think it's easy for me to be both his mum and his dad?"
Ian's face hardened. "You don't have to do both, Flora. That's the point. I am his dad. But every time I try to step in, you shut me out, tell me I'm useless—"
"Because you are useless!" Flora shouted, her frustration boiling over. "You think showing up for one weekend a month makes you Father of the Year? He needs more than that, Ian. He needs you to—"
"To what, Flora?" Ian snapped, his voice rising. "Be at your beck and call every time you screw up? Because that's what this is about, isn't it? You're drowning, and instead of figuring out how to swim, you want me to come and save you!"
The words hit Flora like a slap. Her throat tightened as she blinked back tears. "You're such a bastard, Ian," she whispered. "Do you even care about Max? Or do you just like having someone to blame everything on?"
Ian stared at her, his jaw tight. "Get out, Flora."
"No."
"I said, get out!" Ian shouted, his voice echoing through the small apartment.
Flora froze, stunned by the sudden ferocity in his tone. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, without another word, Flora turned and walked out, slamming the door behind her.
Later that evening, Flora sat on the floor of her living room with a glass of wine in one hand and the stringless guitar in the other. She didn't know why she hadn't returned the damn thing. Maybe because, deep down, she still believed it could be something—a connection between her and Max, or maybe even a connection to herself.
The door opened, and Max walked in. He stopped when he saw her sitting there, the guitar resting awkwardly on her lap.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and disdain.
Flora looked up at him, her eyes tired but soft. "Trying to figure out how to string this thing," she said.
Max hesitated, then sat down across from her. "You're holding it wrong," he muttered, reaching out to adjust her grip.
Flora blinked at him. "You know how to play?"
"A little," Max admitted. "Ian taught me."
Flora swallowed her pride. "Well, maybe you can teach me."
Max looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. "Maybe."
It wasn't much, but it was a start.
The next day, Flora woke up to a text from Ian: I shouldn't have shouted. Can we talk?
Flora stared at the message, her thumb hovering over the screen. She didn't know if she was ready to forgive him, but maybe—just maybe—they could figure out how to untangle this mess together.
After all, even the most broken guitar could still make music if you strung it right.