Saturday Without Mum
The saucepan of porridge was bubbling on the hob, and that sound had long since stopped being just a sound. For Emily, it had become a kind of metronome, ticking off her evening. Two hours until Henrys bedtime. Forty minutes before Ben started nodding off at the table. Fifteen minutes to try to eat something herself while standing at the sink, hoping both children didnt wake at the exact same moment.
Henry, whod turned two years and four months in February, was sitting bang in the middle of the kitchen on the lino, methodically taking plastic vegetables out of his toy pot. Carrot lobbed right, broccoli tossed left, a sweetcorn cob made a grand arc and landed under the fridge. Ben, five years old and terribly serious because it was Friday, stood at the window, narrating the street scene as if it were vital business.
Mum, why does that lady have such a big dog? Is she living with a bear?
Ben, please come away from the window.
But Mum, its honestly like a bear. Maybe even bigger. Mum? Are you listening?
Emily was listening. Emily always listened, even when she desperately wished she wasnt. She stirred the porridge, nudged the corn cob further from Henry with her foot before he could use it as a teething ring, and glanced at the milk on the other hobit was for Henrys evening porridge and had a habit of boiling over the moment she looked away.
Im listening, Ben. It must be that sort of breed. Some dogs are just very big.
Whats it called?
Im not sure, love.
Why not? Youre a grown-up.
Henry dropped his little saucepan. The clatter was so loud both children jumped. Henry looked at the saucepan, as if it had leapt from his hands all by itself, then looked up and declared, Bang.
Bang, Emily agreed.
She whipped the pan off the hob half a second before the milk overfloweda small victory on a day of endless little skirmishes. She let herself exhale, and just then, the front door clicked open.
Ben darted from the window before Emily had even registered what was happening.
Dad! Daaaaaad! Dad, theres a lady outside with a bear! Come and see!
James entered looking like a man whod spent the day unloading lorries, although he actually worked in an office with central heating and spreadsheets. His blazer hung open and his tie was skewed to the side. He tousled Bens hair absently, stepped over Henrys wellies, scattered in the hallway, and appeared in the kitchen doorway.
Evening. Anything to eat?
Emily looked at him for a second, then turned back to the hob. Porridge in ten minutes.
Porridge, he repeated, with the sort of ambiguous tone that meant nothing but implied plenty.
Its porridge and patties. The patties are in the oven.
Ah, thats alright then. He wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge, scanned its contents like a sailor sighting an empty sea. Did you get out today?
I did. To the shop.
And? Get some fresh air?
There was nothing wrong with the question. Or maybe there was everything wrong with it. Emily hadnt decided.
I did. Carried Henry in the buggy in one hand, bags in the other, and got plenty of air, thanks.
James poured himself some orange juice, drank it down. Henry made it to his side and clung to his trouser leg like a long-lost owner.
Dad-dy, Henry said with weighty importance.
Hello, mate. James scooped him up, gave him a quick toss. Henry laugheda pure, delighted baby laugh that holds every joy in one sound. Hes heavy. Is he eating alright?
Hes eating well.
Looks like hes put on weight.
Hes growing, James.
Ben came back in and planted himself between his parents like a seasoned diplomat.
Dad, are you tired?
I am, Ben. Very tired.
Is Mum tired too?
James glanced at Emily, who was stirring the porridge.
Mums been home today, James said, and there was nothing sharp in his voicejust a bare fact. Mums been taking it easy.
The spoon paused in Emilys hand. One secondmaybe two. Then she started stirring again.
Ben, go wash your hands, please.
But Mum
Hands. Please. Go.
Ben shuffled away, all hunched and sighing, like a little old man torn from pressing business. Henry wriggled in Jamess arms, reached for Emily. James set him down; Henry stomped over, clung to her jeans and said his favourite word on repeat. Mum. Mum. Mum.
Im here, Hen.
Mum!
Im here. I can hear you.
James took a seat at the kitchen table and pulled out his phone. The screen glowed blueish.
Did you order that meat I wanted?
I was going to tomorrow.
I mentioned it last Friday.
I remember. Ill order it tomorrow.
Its a bit late, I was hoping to grill some for the weekend
James, Emily said. Soft, not angry, but something in her voice made him look up. Ive been up since seven. Henry was up before seven; I never got back to sleep. Then breakfast, then Bens class, then the shop, then lunch. Henry didnt nap, screamed for an hour and a half; Ben scattered LEGO to every corner, so I picked it up. Then I cooked your tea.
James listened, phone in hand but not looking at it.
I get that, he said. But youre home. Its not quite the same as working.
Emily checked the patties in the oven. Perfectly browned.
Youre right, she said. Its not.
She grabbed the oven mitts and pulled out the tray.
Her voice, or perhaps just the way she stood, made James look up again, but she was already laying the table, face completely calm. Maybe too calmthe calm of someone whos made up their mind about something and is just finishing the job.
Dinner was much as usual. Ben held forth about the dog-bear and insisted they go hunt for it the next day. Henry mashed porridge around his highchair tray with deep artistic intent. James ate, half-focused on his phone, occasionally grunting a reply to the boys. Emily ate standing upHenry was fidgety. Then Henry tipped over his water cup, and Emily mopped water from table, floor, and Henry. Then Ben wanted another patty. There was none left; Ben was truly distraught, as though it were far more than a patty missing.
Ben, would you like bread and butter?
Dont want bread. Want a patty.
There arent any more. Bread, cheese, or apple.
Dont want any of those. Want a patty.
There arent any, Ben.
Why didnt you make more?!
I made what I had time for.
But Mum!..
Henry, for his part, piped up: No.
Everyone looked at him.
No, he said again, slapping mashed porridge with satisfaction.
Ben burst out laughing. The tension melted. Emily cleared the table, did the washing up, bathed Henry while James watched telly in the lounge. Then she brushed Bens teeth, settled Henry with his bottle and teddy, then read Ben a book about cars for forty minutes, because he wouldnt go to sleep and kept demanding just one more page. At last, Emily slipped into the hallway and leaned against the wall.
From the lounge, the TV blared. Outside, the citys Friday night rumbled along.
Emily stood there briefly, then went into the bedroom, dragged a small suitcase from under the bed, and began packing. She did it methodicallyno panic, no hurry, just someone whod thought this all through and was waiting for the right moment.
At nearly eleven, James poked his head in. Whatre you doing?
Packing.
I can see that. Where to?
To Stillwater Retreat. Its a place outside Oxford. I called them Wednesday, booked two nights.
James perched on the bed. His face showed the shock of someone hit by a truly unexpected piece of news.
So youre going? For the weekend?
Yes. For the weekend.
And us? The kids?
Emily packed in a book she hadnt touched for six monthsnever the time.
Youll manage, James. Youve been resting at work all week.
She said it without anger, which somehow made it land even harder.
James opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again.
Is it because of what I said about the patties?
No.
Then whats it about?
Nothing in particular. Zipping the case. I just need two days of peace. Ill go in the morning, be back Sunday evening. The fridge is full. Henrys porridge is labelled, says exactly how and when. Ben eats everything except cooked onions. Henry only settles with his bottle and teddyteddys in his cot. Both love bath time. Thats all.
Em
James, I really want to sleep. Can we talk in the morning?
She left before he woke up.
James heard the front door click shut, lay staring at the ceiling for a while, unease creeping in. He told himself itd be fine. Two children. A day. What could be so difficult?
At 6.45am Henry made himself known.
James couldnt work out where the sound was coming from at first; then he realized it was Henryfull-blown screaming, not just a whimper, demanding urgent attention.
He made it to the nursery. Henry, standing in his cot clutching the bars, looked at the door like someone who couldnt fathom why help hadnt arrived ages ago.
Hey there, said James.
Mum! said Henry.
Daddy. Its Daddy.
Mum!
Mummys not here, mate. Mummys gone away for a bit. Daddys here.
Henry considered thisthat answer didnt please him.
Mum, he insisted, as though James just hadnt tried hard enough.
Mums not here. Lets get you some breakfast.
James picked him up. Henry absently touched his cheek and pulled his ear, before trying again: Mum.
James sighed. Come on, lets go to the kitchen.
The kitchen, basking in Saturday morning sun, was completely baffling. Henry in his highchair, watching. James opened the fridge. Loads in there. Plastic tubs, marker labels. Henrys porridge. Heat for 2 minutes. Add a knob of butter. Morning. He found the tub, got out a little saucepan, heated it. He assumed Emily meant butter, so in it went. Tried it, salted it faintlytasted a bit bland.
Henry eyed the bowl.
No, he announced.
Your porridge.
No.
Its yummy. Mummy made it.
No!
You ate it yesterday.
Henry looked again at the bowl, then squarely at James, and with dignity: Dont want.
James put the porridge before him anywaya rookie mistake. Henry immediately slid it out of reach, nearly off the tray; James managed to rescue it in time. Then Henry tried to stand up in the chair. Then he stuck fingers in the porridge.
Henry. Not with your hands.
No, no, said Henry, promptly using a second finger.
Henry!
Ah!
James grabbed the spoon and tried to feed him. Henry clamped his mouth shut, apparently having made an ironclad decision. The spoon hovered. James waited. In the distance, the shuffle of Ben approaching, hair wild, pyjamas crooked, looking all business.
Dad, why didnt Mummy wake me? She always wakes me.
Mummys off at the retreat.
Whats that?
Thats where people go for a rest.
Why didnt we go?
Mummy needed to rest by herself.
Ben absorbed this. Rest from us?
No just rest.
Does it have a pool?
I dont know.
Or slides?
I really dont know.
Text Mum, then.
Mummys turned off her phone.
Ben stared, shocked. She always answers. I ring, she always picks up
Not this time.
Pause.
Dadcan you make pancakes?
Pancakes?
Mum always makes pancakes on Saturday. Its pancake day.
James looked at Henry, currently decorating himself with porridge. Ben waited. It was only 7:14am.
Absolutely, James said.
He absolutely could not. Hed made pancakes maybe fifteen years agojust about remembered milk, eggs, flour. No idea of exact measurements. He pulled up a simple pancake recipe on his phone and started. Ben, like a junior apprentice, watched closely, absently worrying a chunk of bread liberated from the cupboard.
The first pancake was textbookstuck fierce to the pan, came up in ragged strips. James scraped and binned it.
Didnt work, said Ben.
I know.
Why?
Pan needs to be hotter.
Mum always wipes the pan with some butter first.
I know, Ben.
Did you forget?
I didnt forget, I never mind, Ill do it now.
Second pancake: better. Not Mums pancake, but edible. Ben wolfed it down with lashings of golden syrup, which hed found himself. Meanwhile, Henry got cleaned off and handed a banana, which he received with the poise of royalty.
By ten, James sat with a cup of coffee, feeling things were more or less under control. Henry played on the lounge rug, Ben built things from blocks. The October sun shone through the windows.
Right then, Henry found the phone charger cable.
James heard an odd noise, then louder, then a crash. He rose just in time to see Henry, whod somehow climbed onto the desk chair, tugging at the laptop charger wire. The laptop skidded for the edge.
James leaptand caught the laptop, but the coffee mug hed left nearby overturned. Coffee seeped into the keyboard, slowly and inexorably. No. No, no he muttered.
What? called Ben, sharp-eared.
Nothing. Ben, have you seen the kitchen roll?
Its on the holder.
James mopped the keyboard, shook the laptop. It powered up but several keys were dead. He left it open, keys facing down, filled a bag with rice, and slid the laptop inside. Then realised hed left the charger in his car, dashed out to get it, came back in.
But Henry was no longer in the lounge.
Ben, wheres Henry?
Ben looked up. I dont know. He went somewhere.
Where?
Ben waved vaguely at the corridor.
James checked every room. Nursery: empty. Bathroom: empty. Henry!
Nothing.
Henry!
Ah! came the reply from the bedroom.
James found Henry in the wardrobe, among fallen jumpers, proudly clutching Emilys scarf and looking supremely pleased.
How did you get in here?
Hen, said Henry, his way of announcing his name on grand occasions.
Come out of the wardrobe.
No.
Please, Henry.
No!
James crouched down, held out his hands; Henry eyed him, then the scarf, then back to James. Finally, he put the scarf down neatly (unexpectedly tidy), climbed out himself.
Well done, said James.
Well done, agreed Henry.
By lunchtime James had learned important lessons. Firstly, little children are not as easy to keep an eye on as one would imagineone moment theyre here, next theyre not, and theyre always where you least expect. Secondly, if two children require different things at once and youre the only adult, youre stuck. Third, cooking while minding Henry is possiblelike juggling, if one of the balls has a will of its own.
He decided on tortellinieasy enough. Found a bag in the freezer, boiled water, tipped them in. Ben refused.
I dont eat tortellini.
You always ate them before.
I used to. Not now.
Why?
I just dont feel like it.
Ben, theyre nice.
I know. I just dont want them now.
So what do you want?
Soup.
James stared at him.
I didnt make soup.
Well, you can.
It takes ages.
But youre Dad. You can do anything.
It was the pure logic of childhood. James found a container of chicken stock labelled Soupreheat, added carrots and potatoes, simmered. Ben supervised. Henry, mercifully, napped after lunch, bottle and teddy (exactly where Emily said they’d be).
The soup was watery but edible enough. Ben took half a bowl, declared, Nice, but not like Mums, and dashed away. James polished off the pasta, standing at the hob.
While Henry slept, James checked the laptop. Still dead keys. He hooked up another keyboardthank goodness. But the silence from Bens room was suspicious; silence and Ben were never a safe combination.
He found Ben on the carpet, box of pencils at hand, and a big white pillowcase on which he was drawing a rocket, stars, and, apparently, a space cat.
Ben, said James.
Ben looked up, absorbed. Im making a rocket for Henry. Its a present.
Thats a pillowcase.
So? Its pretty though.
Ben, you cant draw on bedding.
I only did a little. Look, stars, there, and
Ben. You cant. Itll wash out. Give me the felt tip.
Ben passed it over, aggrieved. Its a present.
I know. But beddings not for drawing. Paper is.
With a martyred sigh, Ben took the offered paper and continued his artwork. James gathered the pillowcase, remembering Emily had mentioned laundry yesterday. He gathered the washing, loaded the machine, dosed in some powder, set it to Cotton 60°C.
Later, when Henry woke, the day picked up speed again. Henry, post-nap, was in a mischievous mood. James fetched his apple purée snack, appreciating Emilys carefully labelled system anew.
About four, James checked the machinelaundry done.
The bedding was pink.
Not all of it, but enough. The white pillowcases were now a fetching blush; Henrys white muslin was a delicate pastel; Jamess blue shirt a faint purple-pink. A few white socks now salmon.
James stood at the machine, surveying the pink vista.
Hed loaded Bens decorated pillowcase as well.
The felt tip.
Ben!
What?!
Come here, please.
Ben came, saw the pink sheets, comprehension dawning.
Thats the felt tip, isnt it? James asked.
I guess, said Ben.
The one you used for the rocket?
I was making a present
Ben, look at the sheets.
Ben studied the pink. Pretty, he said thoughtfully.
James closed his eyes. Theyre ruined.
But pink is nice. Mumll like it.
Mum wont like it.
Why not?
Because bedding is meant to be white.
Why, if pink is nicer?
James had no immediate answera promising sign for Bens future as a philosopher. He hung the laundry, resolved to ask the internet about stain removal, or maybe just get new bedding, or, he thought, maybe confess to Emily Confess to what? That hed lost to a pillowcase? To a felt tip? To Saturday?
At five, Ben announced he was hungry.
Tea at six, James said.
Im hungry now.
Have an apple.
Dont want an apple.
Ben
Dad, whens Mummy coming back?
That was the first time Ben had asked directlyall day it had been Mum usually makes pancakes or she always picks upbut now, plain and direct, his voice made James pause.
Tomorrow evening, he said.
Tomorrow evening, Ben echoed. Then: Do you miss her, Dad?
I do.
I do too. Henry misses her toohe just cant say.
You think so?
Yeah. Hes been saying Mum all day, but Mummys not here. Hes sad.
James looked at Henry, who at this moment was sitting on the lounge floor, babbling to a toy car in his own private language.
I think youre right, said James softly.
Dad, couldnt you tell Mummy not to go?
I could have. I didnt.
Why not?
James thought for a second. Because she was tired, Ben. She needed a break.
Cant you have a break at home?
Everyones different, said James. Mummy needed something else.
Ben took that on his small shoulders, accepting the importance of the conversation.
Alright, he said. Then Ill have an apple.
For tea, James turned to his one reliably decent dish: fried potatoes. Crisp, golden, with fresh parsley. Ben loved it. Henry devoured his helping. This, unexpectedly, made James oddly proud.
Dad, this is tasty, said Ben. You can cook.
One thing.
Thats enough. Mummy says if youre good at one thing, thats good enough.
James chuckled. Shes right.
After tea, while Henry busied himself with his cars, Ben sprawled next to him watching cartoons. James washed the dishes. He did it slowly, unfamiliar with the processand in the slowness was something odd. Not that hed never washed up before, of course. But this, after a day with the boys, with the cartoons droning in the background, was different. This was someone elses workexcept it wasnt; it was his now.
He thought about Emilyhow she must do this every day, hearing the bubbling pans, childrens noise, the phone, something crashing in another room, someone calling her from the kitchen. How every day she kept it all together, and hed just said: Youve been resting at home.
He stacked a plate and reached for another.
At 7.15, Henry started to drift off on the floor, head resting on a toy trucka bit alarming since the floor was cold. James scooped him up, carried him to bed. Henry cracked an eye, saw James, then mumbled, Mum, as he drifted.
Daddys here, James whispered. Daddys here.
Daddy, muttered Henry, trying out the word and, apparently satisfied, buried his face in Jamess neck.
James held him for a moment, just so, then lay him down, found teddy, tucked them both in. Henry slept, face tranquil in the glow of the nightlight, and something tightened in Jamess chest.
He found Ben on the sofa, gazing intensely at the cartoons.
Ben, time for bed.
Five more minutes.
Its nearly half-past ten.
Mum lets me stay till eleven on Fridays.
But its Saturday.
Then till half ten.
Ben.
Dad, I barely saw you all week. Can we have just a bit longer?
James sat beside him on the sofa. Ben moved closer, absorbed by robots on the screen. James only half-watchedhe was busy just being there, next to his son.
Dad, Ben murmured, eyes on the telly, are you with us tomorrow?
All day, mate, until Mummys back, promise.
Good. He paused. Will we go to the park?
We will.
With Henry?
With Henry.
Hes slow.
Well walk slow.
Ben nodded. Good, he said again, and settled properly. Good.
By half past ten, Ben had dozed off on the sofa. James lifted him to bed without waking hima private triumph. He tucked him in, hovered a moment. Both boys slept, the flat was quietthe kind of quiet thats so full, its almost heavy.
He returned to the kitchen, made teanot coffee, he’d had plenty alreadyand surveyed the kitchen.
It looked like a kitchen after a day feeding two boys: a few dried puddles, breadcrumbs under the table, smudgy handprints on the fridge, streaks on the highchair tray he’d meant to clean. He fetched a cloth, wiped the fridge, swept up crumbs, properly scrubbed the highchair. Then he eyed the hob and saw the smudges he shouldve wiped earlier; wiped them now, taking his time, thoughts meandering as he workeda new feeling, this.
He placed his mug in the sink, washed it out. Was in bed just after midnight.
At 2am, Henry woke.
James took a while to register, then shuffled to the nursery. Henry stood in the cot, as if the impossible had occurred.
Whats wrong, mate?
Ah! Henry stretched out his arms.
Here you go.
James toddled round the nursery, holding Henry. The child didnt cryjust didn’t sleep. He peered into the darkness, sometimes gabbled, sometimes sighed. James kept walking, arm numb, thinking: Emily does this all the time. Not once a Saturday. Always.
By three, Henry was heavy and limp; James laid him back in the cot, stood guard another ten minutesjust in case. Henry slept.
James crawled into bed at three-thirty.
At precisely 6.48, Henry was up again.
Sunday dawned greyer than Saturdaynot the weather, it was decent, but James didnt have Saturdays right, lets conquer feeling. He functioned: found the porridge, heated it, fed Henry, picked up the bits that missed his mouth. Ben woke up and reminded him, Were going to the parkyou promised.
We did, said James.
When?
After breakfast.
Getting ready took forty minutes, which was an eye-opener in itself. Henry refused his hat. Then got the hat. Then the coat was a battle. Coat succeeded, hat was off again. Ben’s shoe went missingturned up in the bathroom. Henrys wellies needed scrubbingJames did them at the sink while Ben dressed himself, which was good, but Henry was removing his hat, which wasnt.
The park was wonderful. Truly.
Henry, as Bend warned, shuffled along at the slowest pace, stopping at every puddle, every stick, every pigeon. There were a lot of pigeons; Henry approached each with an outreached hand, and every time one flew off, he acted as astonished as the first time. Ben raced the paths, came back, dashed off again. James walked at Henrys pace, breadcrumbs in his pocket.
Watch, Henry, he said, sprinkling crumbs. Wait for it.
Henry froze. One pigeon crept closer, then another. They began pecking, and Henry just watched, motionless, awedmade James think, this is why you get up at half six. For that face.
You see that? Henry whispered.
He rarely put two words together, preferring gestures, but sometimes hed come out with something surprising.
I did, James whispered back.
Birds.
Birds.
Ours, Henry said, glancing up at James. Our birds.
Ours, James smiled.
On the way home, Ben found a pretty stone to keep. Henry was tired and demanded a carry. James plodded along, listening as Ben described the merits of his stone. Soon Henry drifted off on his shoulder; somehow, a sleeping child is heavier than an awake onesome universal truth.
At home, James lay Henry down gentlyanother personal win.
Ben set the stone on the windowsill, next to the wilting pot plant, and suggested they water it. James diddespite its hopeless look, it accepted the drink.
Dad, will it grow?
Well see.
Mum says you have to talk to plants.
Is that right?
Yeah, she sometimes has little chats with them. Havent you seen?
No.
Give it a try.
James addressed the plant. Grow, he said.
More.
Grow well, please.
Ben nodded, satisfied.
At three, when Henry woke from his nap, James had a go at proper soupreal home-made, not just reheated stock. It took longer but Ben ate two bowls, the highest praise possible.
After lunch, James set about the flat.
He wasnt aiming for a show home. He just started picking up the invisible work that always seemed to mysteriously get doneby Emily. He hoovered the lounge, a twenty-minute job since he and Ben had to move toys first (Ben joined in once he realised hoovering came after tidying). Henry followed the vacuum, delivering solemn instructions only he understood.
Then James tidied the bathroom, swapped out towels for fresh. Remembered the pink bedding, googled how to remove pen stains, and soaked it as advised.
By half-four, he realised he was tirednot work-tired, something different. A slow, full-body tiredness, no sharp aches, just a groan in every muscle, especially from carrying Henry. He flopped on the sofa. Ben played quietly on the tablet, Henry napped again.
James stared at the ceiling.
He thought about what inside the house feels likenot the quick impression, coming home to children and dinner on the table, everything tidy. From inside, youre never off duty; workday never ends, no go home now, because you are home and the job doesnt finish until everyones asleep.
Hed thought staying home with children was somehow softer, or easier, slow-pacedlike Emily had quiet moments to read while Henry napped, watched a bit of telly. Not the same as having a job, hed have said.
And it wasnt the same. It was differentbut not easier.
At six, the phone rang.
It took him a moment to recognise Emilys name.
Hi, she said.
Her voice was different. Calm, normalwithout the edge he now noticed had always been there.
Hi, he answered. How are you?
Much better. Had a good rest. Ill be home in about an hour and a half.
Alright. Pause. Kids are fine. Henrys asleep, Bens here.
Im glad. Another pause. James, how are you?
Im alright. A bit worn out.
Silencejust silence, not awkward.
I see, Emily said.
Em
Yes?
Hed meant to say something everyday, like Pick up bread or See you soon. But he said something else.
Im sorry. For Friday. For what I said.
There was stillness on the line. Then:
What for, exactly?
For saying being at home is resting.
Oh, Emily said. There was something in her oh. No told you so. Just a note of being heard.
I didnt get it, James said. I meanI really didnt understand. Now I do. Not all of itbut a bit more.
Thats good, James. She sounded gentle.
Come home soon.
Already on my way.
She got in at half seven. Ben, as ever, heard the key first, sprinted to the door. James listened to their reunionBen chattering away at top speed. Henry, fully awake now, was lifted out of the cot by James.
Emily came into the lounge. She lookedthe only way to describe itlike someone whod finally had a proper nights sleep. Not radiant, not magazine-cover glowingjust well.
She looked at Henry in Jamess arms; Henry saw her, and, barely believing, murmured, Mum.
Im here, Emily said. She scooped him up and held him tight. Henry buried his nose in her neck.
All okay? James asked.
All fine.
I made soup. And weve leftover potatoes from lunch.
Emily gave him a looksomething softened around her eyes.
You made soup?
From scratch. Ben approved.
Ben approved, Ben declared, stepping in with a matter-of-fact air. Not quite like yours, Mum, but good.
High praise, Emily smiledher first real laugh in days.
They ate together in the kitchen. Ben detailed the pink laundry incident. Emily glanced at James, who grimaced and shrugged:
Felt tip in the wash.
I saw. Did you soak it with stain remover?
Yes. Looked it up online.
Should help. Pause. Wheres the rocket pillowcase?
Soaking too.
Did the rocket wash off?
Partly. The outlines still there.
So now its a haunted rocket pillowcase.
Dad said it was ruined, Ben offered, but it was meant as a present for Henry.
I know, love; good idea, just not the right canvas.
Dad said so too.
Then we agree.
Ben looked between them, uncertain how to feel about parental consensus.
Henry ate his soup, missing his mouth occasionallya mess, save for his clear happiness that his mum was back. Every so often, hed look up with an Is she still here? sort of look, then get back to the soup.
After tea, James did the washing upno asking, just did itwhile Emily put Henry to bed.
When she came out, James was still finishing a saucepan.
James, she said.
Yes.
Thank you.
For the dishes?
For the dishes, and everything.
He put the pan away, dried his hands, turned round.
Ben asleep?
Almost. Reading with the torch under his duvet, thinks I dont know.
Ill tell him I saw.
Nodont. Let him have his secret.
They stood in the kitchen. Henrys gentle snuffles came from the nursery, a sliver of light sneaked from Bens door.
Em, can I ask you something?
Go on.
How long have you felt like thistired? Or just recently?
Emily thought, leaning against the fridge.
A while, she answered. I used to think it was normalthat I should just cope.
And then?
And then it began to feel like I was coping but you werent there. Not physicallyyou were home, with us. But the sharing part it wasnt there.
James was silent, just looking.
Im no good with these things, he said at last.
I know.
But I hear you. Now.
She nodded. Thats something, James.
I want more.
More what?
More to be in it. Properly. Not just when youre at the end of your tether and off to a retreat.
Emily looked at him for a long time, then finally smileda soft, deep smile, something easing inside her.
Well then, she said. Lets make it specific. Not just: Ill help. Actual jobs.
Alright.
Youre on mornings with the kids at weekends. I sleep until eight.
Deal.
Weeknight suppersalternate. One night you, one night me.
I cant cook much.
Youll learn. I did.
Youre right. Anything else?
Well see how that goes, for now.
Alright.
A faint rustle of page-turning drifted from Bens room.
Reading, said James.
Reading, Emily agreed.
They stood quiet for a momentone of those pauses thats full, not empty. Then Emily yawned, hand to mouth.
Off to bed, love, James said. Ill check on Ben.
Hes not asleep.
I know. Just to say goodnight.
Alright.
She headed for the bedroom. He paused in the kitchen a second longer. Clean sink, neat dishcloth, fridge lined with labelled containers.
Then he knocked on Bens door.
Im awake, Ben called out.
I know. Can I come in?
You can.
Ben was under the covers, torch off, book by his pillow.
Been reading?
A bit.
What about?
Ships. Theres a boy on a big ship.
Good?
Really good. Dad, will we ever go on a big ship?
We might.
Mum says We might when she wants to say no.
And I say We might when I honestly dont know. Maybe we will.
Ben considered.
Alright, he said. Night, Dad.
Goodnight, Ben.
Dad.
Yes?
Im glad Mums back.
Me too.
And you two talked properly, not rowed.
James looked at him.
You heard?
A bit. Not on purpose. Just your voices. But they sounded alright. Not cross.
Alright, Ben. Alls alright.
Good. Ben turned to his side, pulled up the covers. When you argue, I cant sleep.
So simply, so exactly, that James couldnt answer straight away.
I understand, he said. Well try not to.
Deal, Ben said, very grown up.
James flicked off the hallway light, paused by the nurseryHenry sound asleep, teddy by his side. Into the bedroom; Emily lay reading, book on her chest, eyes closed.
He lay beside her, still for a moment in the dark.
Em, quietly.
Mmm?
Was Stillwater Retreat nice, then? What was it like?
Pause. Then: Nice. Quiet. Food was good. Theres a little pond with ducks.
Ducks, he repeated.
Bit mad. They follow anyone with bread.
Ben would have liked that.
He would. So would Henryhed have chased them.
Maybe well go together sometime.
Maybe.
Darkness. Stillness. Children asleep, Sunday evening humming outside.
James.
Yes?
Your turn for tea tomorrow.
Pause. Then he laughed, low, so as not to wake the boys.
I can do potatoes.
I know. I love potatoes, too.
Alright.
Alright, she echoed, voice already drowsy. Goodnight.
Goodnight, Emily.
In the morning, when Monday and its list of normal routines arrived, James was up at half six. Henry still slept. Ben still slept. Emily slept.
He went to the kitchen, put on the kettle, fetched Henrys breakfast, and opened the curtain. Damp autumn dawn outsidea peaceful, ordinary day ahead.
No fanfarejust porridge on the cooker, kettle boiling, and a flat quiet before the children stirred and set things moving.
But something was different. Not loudly sojust different.
He touched the wilted plant on the windowsill, watered yesterday. The soil was still damp, and one of the lowest leaves seemed a bit less greymaybe his imagination.
Grow, James whisperedto the plant, or perhaps to everything else.
The kettle clicked off. Through the wall, Henry made morning noises. Soon it would all begin again: the rush, the noise, the juggling, unstoppable as ever.
