Making space for what, exactly?
I take another step in and finally see them.
Christa is on a yoga mat.
Since when do we have a yoga mat?
It’s been dragged into the middle of the open-plan living space where the coffee table usually lives. She’s sitting upright, legs bent, hands resting on her bump, concentrating like this is an exam she didn’t revise for.
My mum is opposite her, mirroring the position with alarming competence.
“That’s it,” Mum says approvingly. “Shoulders down. Lovely. You’re holding tension here.” She taps her own neck. “I did exactly the same. That and heartburn were absolutely relentless.”
Christa lets out a breathy laugh. “That sounds… familiar.”
I clear my throat.
Both of them look up at the same time.
“Oh good,” Mum says brightly. “You’re home.”
Christa grins. “Hi.”
I gesture vaguely at the scene. “Why are you both on my floor?”
“Pregnancy yoga,” Mum says, like this explains everything. “You should have started this weeks ago.”
“I didn’t know yoga was my responsibility,” I say.
Christa shifts slightly on the mat. “Your mum says it’s about breathing and posture. And definitely not martyring myself by standing up too much.”
Mum nods. “Very important. He needs reminding,” she adds, pointing at me.
“I am standing right here,” I say.
“And yet,” she replies calmly, “still not offering her a cushion.”
Christa tilts her head, thoughtful. “A cushionwouldbe nice.”
I move. Immediately. Grab one. Then another, because this is a test and I am not failing it twice.
Mum hums with satisfaction. “Good. See, he can be trained.”
“Excuse me,” I say.
Mum ignores this entirely, gets to her feet, and pulls me into a hug that is firm, affectionate, and faintly judgemental. She smells like perfume and home and something warm and savoury that makes my stomach immediately sit up and pay attention.
“You look thin,” she says into my shoulder. “Are you eating enough?”
“Yes,” I say. “I eat plenty.”
“Mm,” she replies, unconvinced, and pulls back just far enough to look at my face. “And you need to take better care of her.”
She gestures at Christa like she’s presenting evidence.
“I am taking care of her,” I protest.
Mum raises an eyebrow. “You brought her a cushion only after being prompted.”
