A Saturday Without Ribbons

A Saturday Without Feeds
David placed the wicker basket from the hallway onto the kitchen tablethe one that always collected keys and spare changeand announced, in the same tone he usually reserved for reading out the family budget:
Lets give it a shot. A Saturday without feeds. No group chats, no news, no social scrollsnot until evening.
He was the first to reach for his own pocket as if to double-check he hadnt forgotten something crucial, then caught himself. His phone rested face-down on the kitchen shelf between the salt and pepper. Emily looked at it like people do at a blank televisionthe noise still buzzing in her head.
What if Mum texts? she asked doubtfully.
Calls are fine, replied David. But no endless reading.
Ben, their fifteen-year-old, already had his smartphone in hand. He glanced up, as though caught with something far dodgier than just a phone.
I wasnt reading news, I he started.
All phones in the basket, Emily said, holding out her palm. Her voice was calm but carried the edge you might hear before a big exam.
Ben sighed, dropped his phone into the basket, then immediately reached for it again, as if his hand hadnt processed the new rule. David covered the basket with a tea towel and nudged it against the wall.
Alright, he said. Breakfast.
For the first thirty minutes, they busied themselves with tasks. Emily sliced apples. David set a pan on the hob. Ben fetched the plates. But soon enough, the silence thickened. Normally, someone would chime in, Have you heard about, and the chat would roll like a ball down a hill. Now, the ball refused to budge.
Emily realised she was searching the room for her phone, as if it might be anywhere except under the tea towel. She opened the fridge, closed it, then opened it again, hoping for inspiration on how to fill the blank morning.
So, how did everyone sleep? David asked as they sat down.
Ben shrugged. Alright.
Emily nodded, though her night was restless. She kept waking up with the sense that something important was happening and she didnt know what. It wasnt curiosity, exactly. It was controlas if knowing what was going on meant shed be ready for anything, not caught off-guard.
I was thinking about popping down to the allotment today, David said, hesitating. Just to check on things. But itll be the usual traffic again.
Wont know about the traffic with the news off, Ben smirked.
Emily shot him a look. Dont start.
Im joking, Ben grumbled, staring at his plate.
David felt a flare of irritation, annoyingly familiarlike a reflex. Any other day hed quash it with a quick scroll, find someone elses rant online and feel a bit better, unworried that hes not alone. Now, the irritation was just his own.
Ben, said David evenly. Lets knock the sarcasm on the head.
Whats still allowed, then? Ben muttered. No news, no jokes. May as well sit in silence.
Emily wanted to answer but bit her tongue. She realised she didnt actually know, either, whats still allowed. Her recent chats with her son mostly started with, did you see? and ended in a squabble over who understood things best. That was easier than asking how he actually felt.
After breakfast, they drifted to separate rooms, each with a sense that the rule was less about phones and more about having to be near each other without the usual scaffolding. Emily turned on the washing machine just for background noise. David spent an age scrubbing the bathroom basin, though it was already spotless. Ben sat at his computer, not launching a game, just staring at the blank screen like it was a closed door.
An hour later, Emily caved and approached the basket. The tea towel was neatly folded like a lid. She lifted a corner, saw her phone, and felt something click insidepermission. Then straightaway, denial. She put the towel back, glancing around as though someone might catch her in the act.
David came out of the bathroom and found her by the wall.
Getting twitchy? he asked.
Emily nodded. Its like something vitals hidden there, though I know full well what itll be. People arguing. Bad news. Just noise.
And yet you still want to look, David said.
They stood together, and the word together suddenly felt alien. Between them was always a screen, if only in their pocket. Emily remembered how, before Ben, theyd just sit in the kitchen chatting about work, their friends, where they might escape to for a long weekend. Now, whenever she talked about herself, it came out wrongas if she was moaning or being self-indulgent.
Lets at least make a plan for the day, she suggested quickly, or well just end up miserable in our own corners.
David agreed a bit too quickly. Good idea. Whats left without phones? Go for a walk? Get some shopping? Cooking?
Board game, came Bens voice from the other room, not bothering to show his face. Hed picked up on the mention of being miserable and wanted to insert himself, to avoid looking childish.
Emily smiled thinly.
Board game is good. But first, we talk, she said, surprising herself with how daunting those words sounded.
Ben wandered in, flopped onto a kitchen chair.
About what?
Emily glanced at David helplessly.
About us, David said, immediately regretting it. Us was suddenly too hefty a word.
Ben grimaced. Not another big lets talk.’
Why not? Emilys voice wobbled with hurt. She didnt want a row, but without news to distract her, everything inside grew louder.
Its always you two who start, but somehow I always end up at fault.
David bit back a response. He did end conversations with You need to understand. It was neat and finala full stop.
Were not looking to blame you, Emily said softly. We want to understand.
Understand what? Ben arched an eyebrow. That Im always on my phone? You two are as bad, you just call it keeping up with things.
Emily flushed. He was spot on.
I she began, but stopped. Admitting Im scared was harder than arguing about strangers online.
David stepped in. Youre right, Ben. Were hooked, too. When I read things, Im convincing myself Im doing something useful. That Im involved. But really, Im just avoiding things.
Ben eyed him, wary, as if David had suddenly gone off-script.
Avoiding what? he asked.
David was quiet for a moment, letting the tiredness hed ignored rise to the surfacework, the constant pressure, always having to be fine.
Avoiding not knowing how we are, he said at last. Not just money-wise. How we really are.
Emily looked down at the kitchen counter, ashamed that she didnt know either. She knew Bens timetable, what needed getting from Tesco, that David had a report due on Monday. But she had no idea how he felt when he came home late and wouldnt talk.
Things are normal, Ben said, like everyone elses. School, work. Youre knackered, so am I.
Thats just it, Emily whispered. And it doesnt make me feel any better.
Ben scoffed. It does for me when you lot leave me be.
The words hung in the air. Emily felt her gut tighten. She wanted to say: Im not interfering, I just want to be here for you. But even in her head, it sounded like blame.
David got up to defuse it.
Alright. Lets not get on each others nerves. Lets just do something together. If talking works out, great. If not, so be it.
Emily nodded, grateful.
How about making dumplings? she suggested. Homemade. Weve got mince in.
Homemade dumplings? Thats ambitious, Ben laughed.
Lets be ambitious, then, David replied, grinning for real.
They dug out a mixing bowl, flour, eggs. Emily kneaded dough, her hands white with flour, surprised at how calming it felt. David cranked the old mincer, even though the mince was ready, just to have something to do. Ben watched, then drifted over.
What should I do? he asked, more as a challenge than a request.
Roll this out, Emily said, handing him the rolling pin.
Ben clumsily pressed out the dough, the circle stuck to the table and tore.
Here we gonever works for me.
Just need more flour, said David. He demonstrated how to lift the dough with a knife and flip it. Ben tried again, better this time. Emily shaped the dumplings, her fingertips flying. She studied Ben, noticing she hadnt seen him this intent on anything that wasnt a grade or a screen in ages.
You used to love playing with dough as a kid, she said.
Ben grunted. I used to love loads of things.
And now? asked Emily, already regretting pressing him.
Ben was quiet, rolling more dough. David shot Emily a lookdont push. She nodded to herself and started on the filling.
Their conversation meandered, fits and starts, like the dough itself. Ben mentioned a classmate who shouts at everyone. David described a colleague who never stops messaging in the group chat. Emily held back from plunging into a rant about what people are like nowadays, reminding herself to just listen.
Once the dumplings were lined up in neat rows, Ben suddenly muttered, Sometimes I feel like you dont see me.
Emily froze, half-formed dumpling pinched in her fingers. David paused mid-turn of the mincer, though the mince had run out.
What dyou mean? David asked.
Ben shrugged. You notice me on my phone, or staying up late, or if my grades are off. But me I dont know how to put it. Sometimes I just feel empty.
Emily fought back tearsnot out of embarrassment, but because if she cried, the whole thing would turn into comforting, and Ben would lock up again.
Empty where? she asked gently.
Everywhere, Ben admitted, finally meeting her eyes. I scroll feeds because theres at least something happening there. A chance to be angry or laugh. When its off, youre just alone. And he glanced at David. You do it too.
David nodded slowly.
I do, he said. Because without it all, I start thinking Im not coping.
I start worrying I cant keep you both safe if I dont know everything happening, Emily said quietly.
The way Ben looked at them changedless trust, more surprise, as if he hadnt realised grown-ups had thoughts like that.
So what now? he asked.
David took the dumpling Emily was still holding and placed it carefully on the tray.
Now we just try to go without, for one day at a time, he said. Not as a self-improvement thing. Just to stop hiding.
Emily exhaled.
And so we have something to talk about other than whos right online.
Ben smirked. And here I thought you just wanted to keep tabs on me.
We do, David replied, candid. Sometimes. But we want to understand you more.
Ben nodded, accepting it for now. He picked up the rolling pin again.
Alright. Lets finish this quest.
While the water boiled, they cleared up together. Emily wiped away flour, David put the boards away, Ben washed the mixing bowl. Each with a job, the air in the flat felt easier. Their phones still sat under the tea towel, and more than once, Emily caught herself wanting to check the time or glance at messages. Instead, she relied on the numbers flashing on the microwave and forced herself to stay away from the basket.
After lunch, they headed out for a walk. Not to take a walk in the usual sense, just to pop to the shops for bread and milk. The streets bustled. People on the phone, eyes glued to screens even as they crossed roads. Emily felt a flicker of annoyancehow can they? Then realised: she was exactly the same.
Ben wandered by her side, hands in his pockets. He didnt fish for his phone; it wasnt there. He scanned the street, actually noticing the signs and faces.
Hey Dad, he asked. When you were my age, did you just?
Disappear into something? David replied before Ben could finish. All the time. Books, computer games. That was my escape.
Ben nodded. Werent you worried youd miss out on real life?
David thought for a moment. Yeah, I was. Still am. But the truth is, life passes you by not because youre reading news. Its when you stop talking to the people actually with you.
Emily listened, nerves quietly humming. The words were rightbut would anything stick when the usual habits returned? She dreaded turning Saturday without into a doomed promise.
Back home, they finally cracked open the board game bought for Christmas but never played. Ben read the rules aloud and muddled through, laughing at his own confusion. David haggled about the instructions but kept the atmosphere light. Emily noticed every time her hand itched for her phone, and forced herself to rest it on the table instead.
That evening, once Ben ducked off to his room, Emily and David sat at the kitchen table. The basket remained against the wall.
Think he actually believed us? Emily asked.
Not sure, David admitted. But he heard us.
Emily pulled away the tea towel. Their phones lay there, unchanged. She picked up hers, powered it up. A few messages. Nothing urgent. The world kept spinning.
David took his own phone, glanced at the screen, then put it back.
Tell you what, he said. Same time next week. And if we slip up, we just admit it, no drama.
Emily agreed.
And if the urge to go off about the state of things gets too much, she added, well start with: How are you? instead.
David smiled, tired but sincere. Deal.
Bens voice echoed from his room: Are you two done in there? I need my charger.
In the hallway drawer! Emily called back.
Ben wandered in, saw the phones on the table, hesitated. He didnt rush to grab his. He looked at his parents first.
So next Saturday is feed-free too?
Yes, David answered.
Ben took his phone, turned it over in his hand as if weighing it, then put it back in the basket.
Alright, he said. But you two cant bail either.
Emily felt a sense of quiet ease loosen in her chestnot confidence, nor triumph. Just the feeling of a place she could return to.
We wont bail, she said, covering the basket with the tea towel, and left the phones there till morning.