“Look what came in the mail” I call out happily to you, a big smile plastered on my lips. I wheel the bicycle, wrapped in plastic, into the living room where you’re sitting with a book. You raise an eyebrow, probably wondering what my intentions are this time.

I chuckle at the skeptic look on your face and put down the support so the bike can stand on its own. “I’m gonna teach you how to ride a bike” I say proudly, acting like this is such a milestone for you.

It occurred to me last week that we’ve never gone on a cycle trip before. Just riding around the block, maybe settling down to have a picknick somewhere private. I proposed the idea to you. And that’s when you, for some reason shyly, admitted that you never learned how to ride a bike. I had to conceal my initial shock, because who can’t ride a bike? But then I remembered how your childhood was far different from mine. Neglect, trauma and arguments instead of hugs, newly baked cookies and laughter.

So, the day after I ordered a bike online. A slightly glittery one in your favourite colour. I even bought a matching helmet. We don’t want you to hurt your perfect head, do we?

20 minutes later and I finally convinced you to come outside. When the lockdown started, we decided to stay in my house in Hampstead Heath. Public, but private enough to live in peace. I help you up on the bike as we stand out on the big driveway right outside the house. I can sense your nervousness, but I hold steadily onto the bike and you.

“Okay, let’s take it slow. It’s all about balance. Just start pedaling” I instruct you gently.