“Love you, my big girl,” I call.
“Love you, Mummy!” she shouts back.
Ruby claps like she understands the whole thing.
And then it’s quiet. Just me, Dan, and Ruby in the car, a rare sliver of peace.
Dan glances at me as we pull out of the car park. “Supermarket next?”
I groan. “If we must. We’re out of milk, bread, and apparently every single fruit that exists.”
“Fine,” he says. “But you’re getting the trolley this time.”
“Why me?”
“Because last time you vanished in the candle aisle for twenty minutes.”
“I was researching scents.”
“You were sniffing jars like a weirdo.”
“I call it aromatherapy.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You love it.”
“I do.”
The words slip out so naturally, so casually, that it catches me off guard for a second. But it’s there, that easy affection, the humour, the rhythm that’s ours. We might be exhausted, always running late, always juggling too much, but there’s still love tucked in between the chaos.
The supermarket is busier than usual. Ruby sits in the trolley seat, legs swinging, holding a packet of baby rice cakes like it’s treasure.
Dan pushes the trolley while I consult the shopping list on my phone. “Right. Milk, eggs, fruit, bread, snacks for the party...”
He cuts in, already steering toward the bakery. “And doughnuts. You can’t do a Saturday without doughnuts.”
“You say that like it’s the law.”
“It is.” He lifts a box of iced ones into the trolley and grins. “Parenting fuel.”
I roll my eyes but let it slide. He’s not wrong.
Ruby starts pointing to the bananas as we walk. Her chatter is so innocent that an older woman nearby smiles at her, then at us. “Busy morning?” she asks, with the knowing tone of someone who’s been there.
I laugh. “You could say that. Rugby, dance, now the weekly dash for survival essentials.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” she says kindly, before shuffling off down the aisle.
Dan leans toward me as she leaves. “People always say that. ‘Enjoy it while it lasts.’ As if we can enjoy it right now while we’re slowly dying in the cereal aisle.”
I smirk. “Maybe she means we’ll miss it when it’s quiet.”
“Quiet sounds like heaven.”
He says it lightly, but something about the way his voice dips makes me glance at him. There’s a shadow there, maybe just tiredness, maybe something heavier. Before I can ask, Ruby throws a banana on the floor, and the moment’s gone.
We weave through aisles in our usual rhythm: him tossing in things we don’t need (crisps, energy drinks, doughnuts), me trying to keep us on track (vegetables, toilet roll, actual food). It’s mundane and messy and yet, in a strange way, comforting. We’ve done this dance hundreds of times before.
