"Outjockeyed" is a small, perfectly formed story about the things we do in the name of protection, and the damage they leave behind. It asks, with warmth and without judgement, whether love that refuses to bend has any right to call itself love at all.

Gaffer has tended his chapel's garden for decades, carrying on the tradition of his father and grandfather before him. He is a man of deep roots, firm convictions, and a temper that has been known to clear a room. When his seven-year-old grandson Phil wins a beginning rider award at pony club, a prize that required lying to his grandfather about who owned the pony, Gaffer delivers his verdict swiftly and without appeal: Phil will not see him again until the riding stops, and his daughter-in-law Susie will do without his help on the farm until it does. His minister arrives in the church garden one afternoon with a tray of warm, buttery date scones and no illusions about how difficult this conversation will be. Through the careful, unhurried exchange that follows, a deeper story emerges. Phil's father, Jack, died in a steeplechase. Gaffer's silence then, as now, came too late to protect anyone, and the grief he has never named has curdled into a fury he cannot distinguish from love. The minister knows that Gaffer's family has repeated this same pattern of stubbornness and estrangement across three generations, and that today, in this garden, is the moment to break it. Quietly devastating and ultimately hopeful, this is one old man, one wise minister, one impossible afternoon.