“Just go,” she says. “Hear what she has to say.”
“And you’ll be fine here?”
“I’ve been fine for five days.”
That’s not an answer but it’s the only one she’s offering. I study her face. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
I nod slowly.
“Okay.” I guess we’re not talking about our earlier conversation. “See you later then.”
My parent’shouse feels different the second I step through the door.
Not physically, because the same framed graduation photos are still lined up along the hallway. The same patterned rug sits slightly crooked near the stairs because Dad refuses to replace it. But something underneath all of that feels stretched thin.
Dad’s in the front, leaning against the counter with a tea towel over his shoulder, pretending to check something on his phone while very obviously listening for my footsteps. Mum is arranging plates on the dining table with unnecessary precision, moving them half an inch at a time.
And Za…
Za is already seated in the living room with her back straight and hands folded neatly in her lap.
She looks up when I enter and our eyes meet.
“You came,” she says evenly.
“Of course I did.”
She nods once and looks away, like that’s all she expected and all she intends to get.
Mum walks in with a tray of glasses and sets it down a little harder than necessary.
“Sit down, everyone,” she says, and the tone makes it clear this is less dinner and more tribunal.
I sit opposite Za. Dad takes the armchair.
Mum remains standing for a moment, arms folded, watching all of us like she’s about to moderate a debate.
Za clears her throat.
“I asked you all here because I wanted to tell you something properly,” she begins, her voice calm but carrying something steely underneath it.
I brace myself without meaning to.
“I’m going on tour with the production,” she announces.
The words don’t just sit in the room— they divide it.
“A tour? For how long?” Dad asks carefully.
“Six months to start,” Za replies. Her posture hasn’t changed, but I can see the way her fingers are pressing into each other. “Manchester first. Then Birmingham. Possibly Dublin if funding clears.”
“Six months?” Mum repeats, and there’s something sharp behind it. “You’ll be away for half a year?”
“It’s a national tour,” Za says evenly. “That’s how these things work.”
“You didn’t tell us it was this serious.”
