“That was a timing issue,” I say weakly.
Christa, traitor that she is, smiles sweetly. “She’s not wrong.”
I open my mouth to defend myself and am immediately distracted by the smell now fully invading the room.
I sniff. Once. Then again.
“…Have you cooked?”
Mum brightens. “Of course I’ve cooked.”
My heart does a small, happy lurch. “Is that meat loaf?”
“It is,” she says proudly. “Proper one. None of that dry nonsense. And I’ve done mash. And greens. You looked tired on the video call.”
I look at her. Then at my flat. Then back at her.
“What are you doing here?”
She sighs like this question is mildly disappointing.
“Well,” she says, “I had every intention of waiting until you decided it was the appropriate moment to bring Christa to Guernsey and introduce her.” She gives me a pointed look and I flinch like I always do when she looks at me like this. “But,” she continues, turning back to Christa, “I realised I also haven’t met Ivy or Miranda yet. And it seemed silly to sit around waiting when flights from Guernsey are practically free if you don’t mind leaving at ungodly hours.”
Christa laughs. “That explains the energy.”
“Exactly,” Mum says. “And I promised Lucy I’d take her out for a belated birthday afternoon tea.”
“You did?”
“Yes,” she says simply. “She was very clear that a promise is a promise. So I thought I’d make a little tour of it. See my children. Meet the women who are clearly keeping them in line.”
There is another pointed look and another flinch.
“How’s dad?”
“He thought he’d rather go fishing than face London, but he wants you all to come home soon. I, for one, was sick of waiting. If my sons can’t be bothered to bring their significant others to me, I have to come myself. So, here I am.”
She looks between Christa and me.
“I hope that’s alright,” she adds, softer now.
Christa nods immediately. “It’s lovely. I was just… not expecting pregnancy yoga when I opened the door.”
Mum beams. “Neither was I. But one adapts.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
My mum is in my flat. She’s cooked my favourite food. She’s bonding with Christa. She’s already scheduled time with my niece and decided to meet my brothers’ partners like this is a perfectly reasonable itinerary.
But it's not.
This is overwhelming.
This is chaos.
This is my life, apparently.
By the time I get back into the kitchen, Mum is packing up the leftovers, probably to take them to Jasper, her baby boy.
