I was woken early by Tippi - four thirty AM, to be precise - with an invitation to join her in the shower. The feel of her soaped hands sliding over my body was second only to the feel of sinking into her from behind as she braced on the wall, taking every thrust and begging for more. I made her come three times before I let go, a target I set for myself and then smashed.
Then, before she left, she told me the Pink Sugar Club had approved me as her guest after receiving my details and paperwork, and had invited us both to a night in London this weekend. “You’ll do great,” she said when she saw my face after explaining what to expect. So many possibilities, and with more than just the two of us… I’m half terrified, half riotously excited, and wholly preoccupied.
After that, I started my day with an appointment with my provider’s autism team. The idea that a few small tweaks could make life so much easier - and that I’m allowed to ask for them - has opened up my head like nothing I could have imagined. We worked out that my workday is already optimised: flexible hours, working from home when needed, lighting and sound how I like them. Where I need help is socialising.
They suggested having a “social ally”, a friend or family member who can help me join conversations and decode group dynamics. Tippi is already doing that, whether she knows it or not. Once she leaves, I think I might ask Sadie. I want to spend more time with people, but in ways that don’t flatten me; andthat’s OK. I’ve also signed up for online social skills classes to prepare some scripts. I’m… cautiously optimistic.
And then, to top it off, I finally cracked how a hacker had slipped past one of our clients’ perimeter defences and siphoned data without tripping alarms. It had been sitting in our caseload like a lead weight. Adam was pleased enough with my work to authorise a five-figure bonus. A genuinely satisfying day.
Which is why it’s depressing to feel those bright, buoyant feelings drain away as I park outside my father’s bungalow after work.
It’s the neatest house on the estate. The front lawn is uniformly trimmed. No moss on the brickwork, no grime on the windows, no weeds daring to poke up through the soil. None of this surprises me; he’s always treated home maintenance like a military campaign. But the sparseness of it all, from the empty flowerbeds to the determined plainness of everything, feels like a reflection of how little he actually has in his life now.
Without us.
Who does he talk to? He never had close friends, not even before retirement. At the old family house, he treated the neighbours like irritants; I can’t imagine that’s changed. No wife. No family. I wonder how many days pass when he doesn’t speak to anyone at all.
And the sticking point:he did this to himself. If he’d behaved with basic decency, he wouldn’t be here in this sterile little box.
I don’t want to be here either, and I was the one he supposedly favoured. That was never aboutme, though; I was just the child who obeyed. If Sadie had been obedient and I had been rebellious, she’d be the golden one. It wasn’t for my own sake that he approved.
Three deep breaths - my old friend - steady me before I get out of the car and walk up the path. I knock, but I’ve already seen thecurtains twitch.
Dad looks smaller. Not quite frail, but not as insistently vigorous as before. He’s grey: grey trousers, darker grey jumper, charcoal shoes polished to a mirror shine. Even his eyes are a flat, washed-out grey, already narrowed in disapproval that makes my stomach swoop.
“Took you long enough, didn’t it,” he sniffs, turning his back so I can follow him inside.
There are no photos on the walls, no paintings, nothing personal. The walls are white, the carpets bottle green, the sofa bare, no cushions. The furniture is functional and nothing more. All the appliances gleam, like he spends his days polishing instead of living.
I feel a twinge of pity. This is no kind of life for anyone.
“So,” he snaps, voice as staccato as ever, “how have you been?”
“Very well, thank you,” I say evenly.
He grunts. “So well you couldn’t find the time to respond to my messages for weeks.”
I inhale, slow and deep. “I hadn’t heard from you in a while, Dad. You can’t exp-”
“I can’t expectwhat?” His eyes sharpen to blades. “Common courtesy from my own son? I expect better of you, Jacob George Stewart.”
Oh dear. The full-name treatment. That usually heralds a lecture. Trying to divert him, I glance around for a lifeline. “Shall I make us a cup of tea?”
“Have a glass of water,” he says. It’s not a suggestion.
“No, thank you,” I reply, still calm. “I’ll make myself some tea, and I’ll bringyoua glass of water if that’s what you want.”
Leaving him gaping, I head into the tiny, immaculate kitchen with curtains straight out of the seventies. I take my time. If nothing else, it’s a small pocket of peace.
Dad says nothing when I hand him his water and sits without so much as a nod of thanks. If the roles were reversed, he’d have subjected me to a sermon on good manners that would last long enough to require an intermission.
I’m absurdly proud of this tiny act of rebellion: having the drink I want instead of the one he decreed.
What a sad, low bar that is. And sadder still that I felt the need to set the tone in such a little way.
“What the hell isthat?” His voice cracks like a whip.
It takes me a second to realise he’s staring at the bird inked into the inside of my wrist. “Sadie did it,” I say, bracing myself. “Didn’t she do a great job?”
