I dismiss the thought. It’s just a photo. A cool one though.
Dad would’ve loved it.
I think of nine-year-old me running to show him my photo of a honeybee. He plants a rough kiss on the top of my head. ‘That’s brilliant, son. Proud of you.’ He smells like coffee and his black pepper shower gel.
Where did you go?
I drum my fingers on the table as Mum arrives with hot chocolates and a muffin. No, two muffins. I frown.
She smiles, sitting opposite me. ‘I got you one anyway.’
‘But I—’
‘Well, if you don’t want it now, you can have it later.’ Her voice tremors slightly.
My fists clench under the table. I want to explain that while I appreciate the gesture of the muffin, I specifically said I didn’t want one. I want to tell her that I’m not a child. That I don’t need hats and pastries. I want to ask why she won’t listen to me and trust that I know what I need.
But I don’t say any of that because it’s only a muffin and I’m not a total dick.
Instead, I mumble a thank you and pick up the drink. It warms my hands. I take a sip of it then watch it swirl about the inside of the mug, remembering a childhood fantasy of swimming in a pool of chocolate.
Would be a nightmare to clean up.
I set the mug down and I’m met with Mum’s pale blue eyes. ‘Enjoying that?’
I force a grin. ‘Yep.’
‘You OK?’
I shrug and a familiar hum of guilt settles in the silence between us.
She checks her phone and I pick up my camera. I study the seagull. The fear in her eyes. I imagine her heart racing, the adrenaline pumping through muscles as she twists in the frigid air.
What could she see? I hope I didn’t miss a cormorant or something while photographing a seagull!
‘Can I see the picture, please?’
I grip the camera, wanting to hide it from Mum. Why am I being like this?
I pass it over.
‘Looks good. You happy with it?’
‘It’s all right.’
I can’t shake off the feeling of annoyance. Even when she’s done nothing wrong, like asking to see a photo, she gets right under my skin. She’s sad and hurting, and for some reason she wants me to be sad and hurting with her. But we aren’t in the same place because one of us is hiding something.
I take the camera back and the silence returns, which I kind of prefer because for six months she’s changed the subject whenever I ask what happened to Dad. I’ve learned to avoid pushing for answers because I know she’ll get upset. She’s tried to get me into counselling, saying I should talk about my feelings. But all I want to know are the facts. And now she’s taking me away from everything I’ve known because she can’t handle being in our home without Dad, living the life they used to share. She –
I dig my nails into my palms.Stop being selfish! She’s in pain.
After saying goodbye to Ben, I spent my last day in London helping her pack. The delivery company arrived in the morning to collect everything that’s going into storage in Belfast while we find somewhere to live. All that was left were our clothes, a few essentials and a single cardboard box.
The box was full of Dad’s clothes – the ones he hadn’t taken with him. Shirts, trousers and an old REM hoodie that was pretty much falling apart. It had been Mum’s idea to give his things away, but when the woman from the charity shop arrived to collect them, Mum gripped the box. She let out a little gasp when she eventually let go. After the woman left, I saw Mum holding the hoodie behind her back.
‘What’s on your mind?’ she asks, eyebrows knitted as she takes another sip of her hot chocolate.
‘Nothing. Just thinking about stuff.’
