Henrietta Is Not in the Mood.
I close my eyes but I can’t hold back the laugh.
“That’s just rude,” I tell Hadrian. He does not disagree.
There’s more.
A colouring book slips out next. Not aspirational. Not mindful. Just shapes and patterns clearly designed to keep hands busy without demanding emotional growth. A packet of felt-tip pens follows, with thirty-two different colours.
I sit back against the sofa and look at it all.
Not dramatic. Not showy. Just… thought-through.
Which is, frankly, worse.
I pick up my phone.
Me
Okay but the angry hen book feels personal.
The phone stays stubbornly blank. Then the little dots start dancing.
Tom
I thought you might appreciate representation.
Me
Henrietta looks like she wants to set fire to things.
Tom
That felt on brand.
Me
The colouring book was a bold choice.
Tom
I assumed quiet activities and very low expectations.
Me
The socks were a power move.
Tom
Cold feet make everything harder.
I stare at the screen for a moment longer than necessary.
My chest tightens in that annoying way that suggests feelings are happening and I have failed to intercept them in time.
I type. Delete. Type again.
Me
