A Saturday Without Mum
The pot of porridge bubbles quietly on the hob, and for Emma, its long ceased to be just a background noise. Its a kind of metronome, marking out the evening. Two hours until Jacks bedtime. Forty minutes until Alfie starts nodding off at the table. Fifteen minutes at best for Emma to wolf something down by the sink, before both boys are awake at once.
Jack, just turned two in February, is sitting slap bang in the middle of the kitchen lino, methodically unloading plastic vegetables from his play saucepan. The carrot goes right, the broccoli left, the plastic corn cobs in a wide arc under the fridge. Alfie, five and adopting a serious Friday night air, stands at the window, narrating everything happening outside like a small-town news anchor. He considers this very important work.
Mum, why has that lady got such a big dog? Is she allowed to walk a bear?
Alf, would you step away from the window, love?
But Mum, it really is like a bear! Even bigger. Mum, are you listening?
Emma hears him. Emma hears everything, even when she wishes she didnt. She stirs the porridge, pushes the plastic corn further under the fridge with her foot so Jack wont chew it, and darts a glance at a saucepan of milk threatening to boil over on the next ring. Milk for Jacks evening porridge always attempts an escape whenever Emmas back is turned.
Im listening, Alfie. Maybe its just a big breed, love. Some dogs are massive.
But whats it called, then?
Im not sure, darling.
But youre a grown up. Grown ups are supposed to know.
Jack drops his little pan with a crash. Its loud enough to jolt them both. Jack looks at the pan, utterly astonished, as if it fell all by itself, and then raises his head and solemnly declares, BANG.
Bang, Emma agrees.
She whips the milk pan off the heat a split second before it bubbles over. Small victories matter. And then, the front door lock snaps open.
Alfie darts away before Emma can process the moment.
Dad! Daaaad! Dad, theres a lady outside with a BEAR. Come see!
James enters, looking like hes spent the day shifting bricks rather than emails in a stuffy office. Jacket unbuttoned, tie askew. He ruffles Alfies hair absentmindedly, steps over Jacks discarded wellies in the hall, and joins Emma in the kitchen.
Evening. Anything to eat?
Emma fixes him with a look for a second, then turns back to the stove.
Porridge in ten minutes.
Porridge he echoes, with an ambiguous tone that says everything and nothing at once.
Porridge and fish fingers. Fish fingers are in the oven.
Oh, right then. He gives a little shrug, opens the fridge, and stands there as if searching for meaning in the empty butter shelf. Did you even get outside today?
I did, Emma says. Nipped to the shops.
Get some fresh air, then?
Its not a bad question. Or maybe it is, depending on her mood. Emma hasnt decided tonight.
Had plenty of airlugging the bags and Jack in the buggy, I got air in spades.
James unscrews some orange juice, pours, and downs it. By now, Jack has crawled over to cling to his fathers trouser leg with the possessive air of someone who hasnt seen his favourite toy in days.
Da-da, Jack proclaims, slow and weighty.
Hello, mate. James lifts him up and tosses him. Jack laughs with that wild, singular laugh reserved for very small children whose joy fills the whole house. Youve got heavy, pal. He eating alright?
Hes fine, Emma replies.
Hes chunked up.
Hes growing, James.
Now Alfies back in the kitchen, positioning himself between his parents like an ambassador at the UN.
Dad, are you tired?
Wiped out, mate. Really tired.
Is Mum tired too?
James glances at Emma, who stirs the porridge.
Mum’s been home, he says, stating it as fact, not accusation. Just words. Mum’s been resting.
Emmas spoon stills in the pan. Just a second or two. Then she carries on, same as ever.
Alfie, go wash your hands please.
But Mum
Please, Alfie.
Alfie shuffles off, feet dragging like a small old man torn from some vital task. Jack wriggles from James’s arms, toddles over to Emma, grabs her jeans, and recites:
Mum. Mum. Mum.
Im here, Jack.
Mum!
Im here, sweetheart.
James slumps at the kitchen table and checks his phone. Blue glow on his face.
Did you order that roast I asked about?
Was going to do it tomorrow.
I asked last Friday.
I remember. Ill do it tomorrow.
Well itll be a bit late, love. Was hoping to barbecue this weekend
James, Emma interrupts, gentle but unmistakable. He looks up from his phone, reading something in her tone. Ive been up since half-six. Jack woke at half-six, I never got back to sleep. Breakfast, then Alfies activities, then the shop, then lunch, then Jack wouldnt nap and screamed for an hour, then Alfie scattered Lego everywhere and I picked it up, then dinner to make
James listens. He keeps the phone, but doesnt look at it.
I do get it. But youre home, its not the same as work.
Emma opens the oven. Fish fingers are just browning.
Youre right. Its not the same.
She dons oven gloves, pulls out the tray.
Theres something about her voice that makes James glance at her properly. But Emma just plates up, her face steady. Too calmthe look of someone whos made up their mind and just has to finish what needs doing.
Dinner goes as usual. Alfie recounts tales of the bear-dog outside and demands to go and find it tomorrow. Jack smears porridge all over his highchair tray like a frustrated abstract artist. James eats, scrolls, gives one-word answers. Emma stands to eat; Jack grows moody and needs constant reassurance. Then Jack knocks over his water, Emma mops up the table, the chair, the floor, Jack himself. Alfie pesters for more fish fingers, but there arent any left, and is honestly put out, as if it were caviar rather than fish fingers.
Alfie, would you like some toast and butter?
No! I want more fish fingers!
There arent any left. There’s toast, cottage cheese, or an apple.
I dont want toast or cheese or apple. I want more fish fingers!
Sorry, Alfie.
Why didnt you make more?!
I made as much as I could.
But Jack chooses that moment to bang his porridge-smeared hand on the tray and declare: No.
Everyone looks at him.
No, he repeats, satisfied, and slaps the tray.
Alfie laughs, and the tension fizzles. Emma clears, washes up, gives Jack a bath while James sits in the lounge with the TV. She brushes Alfies teeth, settles Jack with his bottle and teddy bearhis favouritethen spends forty minutes reading about vehicles to Alfie, who wont sleep without just one more page. At last, in the quiet hall, Emma leans against the wall.
In the lounge, something blares from the telly. Outside, the Friday night traffic hums.
Emma stands there, then steps into the bedroom, pulls a small suitcase from under the bed, and starts to pack. She does it calmly, as if following a plan long decided but waiting for the right moment.
James looks in at eleven.
Whats going on?
Im packing.
I can see that. Where to?
The Willowbrook Retreat. Its a place just out of town. I rang on Wednesdaythey had space. Two nights.
James sits on the bed, expression dazed, like someone still processing.
Just like that? For the weekend?
For the weekend.
And us? The boys?
Emma packs away a book she hasnt touched in six months because there was never time.
Youll manage, James. Youve had all week to rest at work.
She says it with no malice. Not a hint, and perhaps that speaks loudest of all.
James opens his mouth, then closes it, tries again.
Is this about the fish fingers?
No.
Then what?
Nothing specific, Emma says, zipping the suitcase. I just need two days quiet. Ill go in the morning and be back Sunday evening. The fridge is full. Jacks porridge is on the second shelf, all labelled. Alfie eats anything except boiled onions. Jack only sleeps with his bottle and teddyteddys in his cot. Both like a bath. No fuss. Thats all.
Em
Please, James, I need to sleep. We can talk tomorrow?
In the morning, shes already gone before he wakes.
He hears the front door click shut, lies there for a while, staring at the ceiling in a daze. Then tells himself itll be fine. Two kids. One day. How hard could it be?
At 6:45, Jack makes his presence felt.
James, groggy, first thinks the noise is from outside. Then realises its Jack, hollering robustly from the nursery, in a tone that brooks no delay.
He hauls himself up. Jack is standing in his cot, gripping the railings, staring at the door as if hes been abandoned for hours.
Morning, mate, James says softly.
Mum! says Jack.
Dad. Its Dad this morning.
Mum!
Mums not here, champ. Dads here.
Jack reflects, unimpressed with the news.
Mum, he insists, as if James simply didnt hear right.
Shes away. Lets get you some breakfast.
He lifts Jack out. Jack pokes him in the cheek, tugs his ear, then repeats, Mum.
James sighs. Alright. Kitchen, then.
The kitchen glows with morning sun, and James isnt sure where to begin. Jack in the highchair, watching intently. James opens the fridgeplenty in there. Tupperware labelled in marker: Jacks porridge. Two mins in microwave. Knob of butter. For breakfast. He finds the tub, heats it, adds the butterhoping she meant proper unsalted. Tastes. Adds a dash of salt as it seems bland.
Jack eyes up the bowl.
No, he says.
Its your porridge.
No.
Its tasty, Jack. Mum made it.
No!
You ate it yesterday.
Jack gives the bowl another withering look, then stares James in the eye. Dont want.
James puts the spoon near his lips, but Jack resolutely keeps his mouth shut, arms folded. Just then, little feet thunder inAlfie, hair wild, pyjamas crumpled, face serious.
Dad, why didnt Mum wake me? She always wakes me.
Mums at the retreat.
At the what?
The Willowbrook Retreat, love. A place to rest.
Why didnt we go?
Mum wanted a breakalone.
Alfie mulls it over.
From us?
Fromno. Just a bit of rest is all.
Does it have a swimming pool?
I dont know.
A slide?
Alf, I really dont know.
Text Mum.
Mums turned off her phone.
Alfie glares, shocked. She never does that. She always answers. Every time.
Not this weekend.
A pause.
Dad, Alfie says slowly, can you make pancakes?
Pancakes?
Yeah. Mum always makes pancakes on Saturdays. Its Saturday.
James looks at Jack, now mashing buttered porridge through his fingers, then at Alfie, then the clock. 7:14am.
I can indeed, he says.
He cant. Not really. Fifteen years since he last tried. Milk, flour, eggsthats about all he remembers. No clue on quantities. A quick recipe search on his phone, and he gets going. Alfie sits nearby, keeping a watchful eye, tearing bread into bits unasked.
Naturally, the first pancake sticks, shreds stubbornly. James scrapes it off.
Dad, it didnt work.
I see that.
Why?
Needs to be hotter.
Mum rubs oil on with a bit of kitchen roll, first.
I know, Alfie.
Did you forget?
I didnt forget, I justlets try again.
The next one turns out better. Not a patch on Mums, but edible. Alfie devours it with condensed milk he finds in the larder. Jack gets cleaned up, handed a banana, and receives it as a royal treat.
By ten, coffee in hand, James is starting to feel hes got this. Jack plays on the lounge rug, Alfie assembles Lego. Coffee is good. Autumn sunshine bright outside the window.
But then Jack finds the laptop cable.
James hears a strange sound, then a louder thud. He leaps up just in time to see Jack yanking the cable from the desklaptop sliding off. He saves the laptop, but tips his own mug over the keyboard. Coffee oozes inexorably, like a slow motion car crash.
The laptop dies.
James swears softly.
What? Alfie calls out.
Nothing. Alfie, know where the kitchen roll is?
On the holder, Dad.
James dabs the keyboard, tries turning it on again. A few keys are dead. Vital ones. He tips it, a bit of coffee drains out. Jack watches, intrigued, tightly holding the cable.
Give me the cable, please, Jack.
No.
Jack, its not a toy.
Mine!
After tough negotiationsand a Hot Wheels swapJames reclaims the cable. That was his work laptop, he realises, the one with Mondays presentation saved only there
He closes his eyes. Opens them again. Tries to strategise.
Alfie quietly builds Lego. The calm is oddly soothing. James reads online that rice absorbs moisture, so buries the laptop in a bagful. Realises his charger is in the car. Dashes out. Returns.
But now Jacks missing from the lounge.
Alfie, wheres Jack?
Dunno. He wentthat way. Alfie gestures down the hall.
James checks the hallway. Empty. The nursery? Empty. Bathroom? Not there.
Jack!
Silence.
JACK!
A distant Ah! from the main bedroom.
He finds Jack in the wardrobe, amidst fallen clothes, clutching Emmas old scarf and looking pleased as punch.
How did you get in there?
Jack, comes the proud answerhow he says his own name when formality is required.
Come on, mate. Out you come.
No.
Please?
No!
James crouches, arms extended. Jack looks at the scarf, then at James. He gets up, places the scarf neatly back, and steps regally from the wardrobe.
Good lad, says James.
Good lad, Jack replies.
Lunchtime brings hard-won lessons: small children may be pint-sized, but keeping track of them is pure quantum physics in motion. Two kids, two different demands, only one of you. Multitasking is more like circus juggling, especially when one of the balls crawls under tables.
Lunch: frozen chicken nuggets. Easy, foolproof. Alfie objects.
I dont eat those.
You always have nuggets.
Used to. Not now.
Why not?
I just dont fancy them.
What do you want?
Soup.
James stares at him.
I havent made soup.
You could.
It takes ages.
Dads can do everything, Alfie replies with five-year-old logic.
James finds a tub marked chicken broth, reheat in the fridge, adds carrots and potatoes, gives it a simmer. Alfie watches, offering opinions. Jack, by now, is asleepJames managed to settle him with his bottle and teddy, just as Emma said.
The soup is watery but edible. Alfie eats half a bowl: Nice, but not like Mums. James eats nuggets at the hob.
While Jack naps, James investigates the laptop. Out of the rice, still a few keys dead. He hooks up an old keyboard, opens the presentation. Then, silence from Alfies roomalways suspicious.
Entering, James finds Alfie surrounded by Lego, felt-tip in hand, drawing a rocket on a white pillowcase.
Alfie
Im making Jack a present. A rocket. See, Dad? With stars?
Its Mums pillowcase, love.
So? It looks better now.
You should draw on paper.
But this is for Jack.
Pillowcases are for sleeping, not drawing.
Alfie sighs, handing over the felt-tip with the air of an unrecognised artist.
James takes the pillowcase, suddenly recalling that Emma mentioned laundry yesterday. He gathers laundry into the washing machine, adds powder, chooses Cotton 60, and heads back to the kitchen.
When Jack wakes, the chaos resumes.
Jack wakes from naps filled with adventure. He assumes the world is hiding something from him and doesnt rest till he finds out what. James gives him apple puree marked Jack snack, and feels a moments admiration for Emmas efficient labelling system.
By about four, the washing machine finishes. James opens the door.
The whites are pink.
Not all, but enough. Pillowcases now pink, Jacks favourite muslin blankie a gentle rose, Jamess blue shirt tinged violet. Socks: the colour of smoked salmon.
He stares. Remembers the rocket pillowcase in there.
The felt-tip.
Alfie!
What?
Come here.
Alfie eyes the washing, clocking the tone.
Thats the felt-tip, isnt it?
Maybe says Alfie.
The one you used for the rocket?
I said it was a present
Alfie, look at this.
Alfie shrugs. Its pretty. Pinks nice. Mum will like it.
Mum will not like it.
Why not? Why do pillowcases have to be white if pinks better?
James cant answer straight away. He hangs up the washing, making a private note to look up stain removers. Or maybe just buy new. Or what would he even tell Emmaabout the felt-tip, the pillowcase, or the Saturday?
By five, Alfie says hes hungry.
Dinners at six.
But Im starving.
Have an apple.
I dont want an apple.
Alfie
Dad, whens Mum coming back?
Its the first direct question all day, and something in Alfies tone makes James pause.
Tomorrow night.
Tomorrow night, Alfie repeats. Then adds, Do you miss Mum?
I do.
I do, too. Jack misses her toohe just cant say yet.
You think so?
Yeah. Hes said Mum all day and Mums not here. Thats sad.
James glances at Jack, whos sat absorbed with a toy car, murmuring to it in his own language.
Youre probably right, mate.
Couldnt you have asked her not to go?
I could. Didnt.
Why?
James thinks.
She was tired, Alfie. Really tired. She needed a break.
Cant you rest at home?
James shrugs. Everyones different. Mum needed a bit of quiet, thats all.
Alfie accepts this with the seriousness only five-year-olds can manage.
Okay. Ill have the apple.
James fries up some potatoes for dinner, which he thinks he does rather well. Crispy, with dill. Alfie polishes off the lot, Jack too. James is quietly pleased.
Thats tasty, Dad, Alfie says. You CAN cook.
One thing, at least.
Mum says if you do one thing well, thats good enough.
James laughs. Shes right.
After dinner, Jack crawls about with cars, Alfie watches cartoons, James washes upslowly, with a lack of practice, but a certain attention. Its oddly meditative. He thinks about Emma always cleaning at the sink, hearing the dinner bubble, the children, the phone, the general noise. He thinks of the phrase resting at home, and realises how wrong hes been.
He stands the plates on the rack, quietly.
At 7:15, Jack falls asleep on the floor, head on a toy car. James scoops him up, carries him to bed. Jack opens one sleepy eye, sees its Dad, closes it again.
Mum, he whispers as he drifts off.
Dad, James whispers. Dads here.
Jack tests the word, decides itll do, nuzzles in, asleep.
James lingers a minute, then tucks in teddy and covers Jack. Jacks face, haloed by the night light, is so peaceful it stings Jamess chest.
In the lounge, Alfie solemnly watches cartoons.
Alfie, bedtime now.
Five more minutes.
Its half past ten.
Mum lets me stay up till eleven on Friday.
Its Saturday.
Half past ten then?
James sighs.
Dad, I barely saw you all week. Cant we hang out a bit longer?
James drops onto the sofa. Alfie shuffles closer. The TV blares something urgent and robotic. James doesnt follow the plot, just sits near his son, which is work of a different kind.
Dad, says Alfie, eyes glued on the screen, are you with us tomorrow?
Im with you all day until Mums back.
Good. Pause. Can we go to the park?
We can.
With Jack?
With Jack.
He’s slow.
Well go slow.
Alfie nods, Alright. Alright then.
At half ten, Alfies asleep on the sofa. James carries him to bed without waking hima small victory. Tucks him in. The house is still and full of all sorts of things James cant quite name.
He returns to the kitchen, makes tea, surveys the carnage: small dried puddles, crumbs, Jacks handprints on the fridge, smears on the highchair trays not quite wiped away, the residue of someone trying very hard.
He wipes the fridge, sweeps the crumbs, scrubs the highchair for real, then looks at the hobcaked with dinnerand cleans that too, moving quietly, lost in thought.
He washes his mug and goes to bed just before midnight.
At 2am, Jack wakes.
James doesnt register straight away, but then hes up, to the nursery, finds Jack wide-eyed and waiting.
Whats wrong, mate?
Jack holds up his arms.
James paces the nursery, Jack not really cryingjust wide awake, muttering his own language. James feels his shoulder go numb but keeps going, realising that Emma must do this, not just once, but regularly.
By three, Jack slumps and falls asleep. James stands on until hes sure. Lays him gently back, then collapses in his own bed at 3:30.
At 6:48, Jacks up again.
Sunday dawns greyer than Saturdaynot in weather, but in Jamess mood. He functions. Reheats porridge, feeds Jack, scoops what misses his mouth. Alfie wakes and reminds, You promised the park.
After breakfast, James says.
Getting ready takes forty minutes. Jack refuses his hat, finds it, then refuses his coat, then removes his hat once the coats on. Alfie cant find one shoeturns out to be in the bathroom. Jacks wellies are crusted with mud, and James scrubs them by the sink. At least Alfie dresses himself, but Jack removes his hat again.
But the park is worth it.
Jack toddles at the pace of summer grass. Stops at every puddle, every stick, every pigeon. There are a lot of pigeons. Jack tries to approach each in turn, each scurries away and Jack is always amazed. Alfie runs on ahead, detours back. James drops a fist of crumbs on the path.
There you go, Jackwatch this.
Jack halts. A pigeon edges forward. Another joins. Soon theyre pecking away and Jack is transfixedand James thinks, this. This is why you get up at half six in the morning. For this face.
You saw? Jack whispers, astonished at himself for joining the whole phrase.
I saw, whispers James.
Birds.
Birds, yeah.
Our birds, Jack declares, looking up at him. Our birds.
Ours, James agrees.
On the way home, Alfie finds a pretty stone, insists on bringing it home. Jack tires and wants carrying; James hefts him, listening to Alfies running commentary. Jack falls asleep on Jamess shoulder halfway backthe weight of a sleeping child being, somehow, more substantial than when awake.
At home, Jack goes down for his napanother small win.
Alfie perches the stone on the windowsill, beside a withered plant. It needs water, he announces. James obliges. The plant looks dead, but soaks it up.
Will it grow, Dad?
Well see.
Mum says you have to talk to plants, or they wont grow.
Really?
Yeah. She chats to them sometimes. Havent you noticed?
I havent.
Go on, then.
James looks at the plant.
Grow, he says.
Again.
Grow well. Please.
Alfie nods. Hes heard you.
By three, Jacks up, James has made proper soupnot just heated, made, as best he can. It takes a while, but Alfie eats a double helping and pronounces it a hit.
After lunch, James sets to cleaning. He doesnt aim for perfection, just does what he now realises is the invisible work of parenthood. He vacuums the loungetwenty minutes, after picking up toys. Some, Alfie tidies himself when he realises the vacuum cant run otherwise. Jack shadows James, issuing instructions in his most official baby voice.
James cleans the bathroom, replaces the towels, finds a pile of clean spares, swaps them in, remembers the pink pillowcase and looks up stain removers online. He soaks it in some Diamond White vanish stuff.
At half four, hes knackered. Not office-tired. Somewhere else aches. He sits on the sofa. Alfie plays quietly. Jacks still napping from the park.
James gazes up at the ceiling. He thinks about how it all looks from the inside, not outside coming home to order and dinner. There is no clocking off. The works your own house, your kids, and it doesnt end until sleep falls over everything.
He used to think staying at home with the kids sounded softer. Gentler. Like Emma had time, could read, watch things, sleep. That it wasnt the same as work.
It wasnt the same. But it certainly wasnt easier.
At six, Emma phones.
He doesnt realise its her at first, then snaps to her name on the display.
Hello? she says.
Her voice is different. Calm. Lighter. Not stretched to breaking as it was.
Hey. You alright?
Im good. Rested. Setting off soonback in an hour and a half.
Great. The boys are fine. Jacks napping, Alfies here.
Im glad. A pause. How are you, James?
I alright. Bit tired.
Silence. Not cold, justreal.
I see, says Emma.
Em
Yes?
He means to say something everydayGrab some bread? or Were waiting for you!but it comes out differently.
Im sorry. About Friday. What I said.
Silence. Then,
Sorry for exactly what?
For saying you were resting at home.
Oh, Emma says. And in her oh lies everything. Not vindication. Not I told you so. Just something you only say when you know the other person finally gets it.
I really didnt understand, James says. Not really. Now I do. Maybe not everything. But much more.
Alright, she says. Thats good, James.
Come home soon.
Im on my way.
Emma returns at half seven. Alfie hears the key first, sprints to the hall. James hears a flurry of words, a quickfire update of the whole weekend. Jack, already awake in his cot, gets scooped up by James.
Emma comes in, lookingwell, just normal. Not glowing, not transformed by a spa, but like someone whos genuinely slept and just had a bit of peace.
She takes Jack from James. Jack stares, barely daring to believe, then whispers, Mum.
Its me, Emma smiles. Im here.
She hugs him; Jack nuzzles deep into her neck.
All okay? asks James.
All fine.
I made soup. Theres some potatoes from earlier.
Emma looks at him. Something softens.
Homemade soup?
From scratch. Alfies verdict: a solid B+.
Thats true, Alfie says, popping up. Not the same as Mums, but good.
Thats high praise, Emma laughsa real laugh, the first James has heard in ages.
They eat together at the table. Alfie tells the saga of the pink laundry; Emma gives James a knowing look.
Used the vanish?
I checked online.
Should do the trick. And the pillowcase?
Also soaking.
Rocket still visible?
Mostly faded. Just the outline.
Ghost rocket, then.
Dad says its ruined, Alfie chips in, but I wanted it to be a present for Jack.
I know, sweetie, Emma smiles. Good idea. Justnot the best canvas.
Dad said the same.
So we agree on something, then.
Alfie looks from one to the other, surprised at their unity.
Jack eats soup, misses occasionally, but is content, checking every so often to make sure Mums not gone.
Afterwards, James quietly does the washing upno prompting. He just does. Emma settles Jack to bed.
Returning, she finds James at the sink, scrubbing the final saucepan.
James, she says.
Yeah?
Thanks.
For the dishes?
For the dishes too.
He dries his hands, turns. Alfie asleep?
Almost. Reading by torch under the covers, thinks I dont see.
Ill tell him tomorrow.
Best not. Let him think he fooled us.
They stand in the kitchen. The house is mostly silentJack snoozing, a sliver of light still showing from under Alfies door.
Emma, can I ask James hesitates.
Go on.
How longve you felt this tired? Or is it just lately?
Emma ponders, leaning against the fridge.
Ages. I used to think it was normal. I should just cope, end of story.
And then?
And then I started feeling like Im coping, butwithout you. Youre here, but this partwhats ours togetherwas missing.
James is quiet. Looks at her.
Im not good at these sorts of talks, he admits.
I know.
But I hear you now. I do.
Emma nods.
Thats something, James.
I want to do more.
More what?
Moredoing my share. Not just in a crisis, or a getaway weekend.
Emma studies him a long moment, then smilesthat deep, understated smile James hasnt seen in years.
Lets make rules, then, she says. Not just Ill helplets be precise.
Lets.
Mornings at the weekendthe boys are yours. I sleep in until eight.
Deal.
Weeknight dinners, alternate. One day me. One day you.
I dont know how to cook much.
Youll learn. I had to.
Youre right.
Thats all for now. Well see how it goes.
Okay.
A faint sound from Alfies roompages turning. Then silence.
Hes reading, James notes.
He is.
They stand silently for a while, not emptily, but full of something new. Emma yawns.
Go on to bed, James says. Ill say night to Alfie.
Hes not asleep.
I know. Night is all.
Alright.
Emma heads off. James stands a moment, examining the clean kitchen, towels neatly hung, fridge shelves lined up. He taps on Alfies door.
Not asleep, Alfie calls.
I know. May I come in?
Yeah.
Alfies under the duvet, torch off, book by his sidetells its own story.
Have a read?
A bit.
What about?
Ships. Theres a boy on the great big ship.
Good?
Really good. Dad, will we ever go on a big ship?
Maybe.
Mum says maybe means no.
I say maybe when I honestly dont know. Somaybe we will.
Alfie considers the difference.
Alright Night, Dad.
Night, Alf.
Dad?
Yeah?
Im glad Mums back.
Me too.
And I liked that you were talking on the kitchen, properly, not fighting.
James looks at him.
You heard?
A bit. Not the words. Just your voices. I could tell it was fine.
It is, Alfie. It is.
Good. Cos when you’re cross, I can’t sleep.
Its so simple and so right James is lost for words.
I get it. Well try harder.
Deal, Alfie says firmly.
James switches off the landing light, checks on Jacksleeping soundly with teddythen slips into bed. Emmas there, book in hand, already drifting off.
He lies beside her in the dark.
Emma?
Mmm?
Whats it like at Willowbrook? Was it nice?
A little pause.
Very. Calm. Good food. Theres a duck pond.
Ducks?
Ridiculous ducks. They follow anyone with crumbs.
Alfie would love the ducks.
Alfie would. Jack would dash after them.
We should all go, sometime.
Maybe.
Silence. The children breathing, the gentle city noise outside.
James?
Yeah?
Your turn to cook tomorrow.
He laughsquiet, not wanting to wake the boys.
I do good potatoes.
I know. I love good potatoes too.
Alright.
Alright, she yawns contentedly. Night.
Night, Emma.
Monday morning comes, as always. James gets up at half six. Jacks still snoozing, Alfie too, and Emma at last.
He heads for the kitchen. Flicks on the kettle. Fetches Jacks porridge and pops it in the microwave. Opens the curtains on a grey, damp autumn dawnunremarkable but full of promise of an ordinary day.
No fanfares, no newness. Porridge bubbling, kettle heating, a flat still sleeping. One man alone in a warm kitchen, doing what needs to be done.
Yet stillsomethings changed, almost imperceptible, but real.
He waters the withered plant on the sill. Soils still damp from yesterday. Leaves are still limpbut maybe, just maybe, ones a little less grey.
Grow, James says softly. To the plant, or maybe everything.
The kettle clicks. Through the thin walls, Jack stirs.
Soon, itll all begin again: the noise, the chaos, all the demands and hugs and tiredness of another dayjust the way its supposed to.
