But I just stood there.
Time must have ticked by faster than I realised, but I was pulled out of my trance by the thundering rainfall outside, and when I looked at the window, the sun had shifted west to hide behind stormy clouds.
I considered it for a moment before reaching for my bag. From the side pocket, I lured out my cell, then moved for the double windows. I tugged them open, feeling the hit of mist and cold strike me, before stepping onto the narrow balcony.
Balcony was probably a stretch of a word.
The ledge only extended about a foot from the window and was barred by an iron fence. Maybe to stop people from jumping.
I leaned against the fence and, flicking through my contact list, let the rain batter me.
The pad of my thumb hovered over a contact I hadn’t spoken to in months.
‘DAD’.
I hesitated.
It wasn’t as easy as calling him—and talking.
Mel could be the one to pick up, his wife, or Liam, my half-brother I don’t give a shit about.
Last time I saw his face was in the Christmas card a couple of months earlier. Shiny faces beamed at me from that card, and of course it didn’t include me.
But right then, in that moment, who else could I call?
My grandparents were gone, Mum had no siblings, just me and my dad, who fucked off to Canada when shit got too real for him, except he was happy to stay there and build a whole new family.
And still, my thumb tapped on the button—
The phone rang twice.
“Tesni?”
The faint sound of cartoons in the background—some bright, tinny theme song about superheroes—disturbed the call.
I didn’t know how to start, so I just said the part most people would need warming up for, the part that would make most uncomfortable.
“Mum’s sick.”
The silence that followed was heavy before, in Welsh, he asked, “How sick?”
“Cancer.” My own voice was an echo. “No treatment—just hospice.”
The background noise of cartoons didn’t fade. He didn’t move rooms, didn’t turn down the volume.
“I don’t know what to do,” I confessed, and I hated how small I sounded, how childlike.
The cartoons kept on going.
The sound was churning something in me, something dark, and I itched to reach through the phone and claw at every single one of them, Mel, my dad, Liam.
“I’ll send you money.” His offer numbed me. “For… Uh, arrangements. If you want to look into hospice options too, that—”
A loud crash drowned out the cartoons.
It was fast followed by a child’s scream.
“Liam, don’t touch it! Liam, buddy—I said no!” He huffed, heavy, then called down the phone at me, “I’ve gotta go, I’ll call you back.”
