“Christa’s taking a nap,” I say. “In her room.”
Mum hums in approval. “About time. She was flagging.”
“I didn’t realise naps came with commentary,” I say, reaching for a plate.
“They do when you’ve carried three children,” she replies serenely. “Everything comes with commentary after that.”
We clear the table in a companionable silence. Mum insists on washing up because, according to her, the dishwasher “doesn’t get all the germs”. I dry. This is safer.
When the last plate is away, she fills the kettle.
“Sit,” she says.
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
I sit.
She makes the tea with care. Lets it brew. Milk last. None of my rushed nonsense. Then she brings the mugs over and settles opposite me, wrapping both hands around hers like this is a deliberate moment rather than an ambush.
She watches me for a second. Not critically. Just… attentively.
“Geoffrey,” she says.
I wince. “That name never means anything good.”
She smiles faintly. “I know a nosy mother should stay out of her son’s business.”
I wait for the inevitable but.
“But,” she continues calmly, “I don’t quite understand why you and Christa aren’t together.”
There it is.
I stare into my tea like it might offer guidance.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
Mum snorts. “Everything worth having is.”
“She’s pregnant,” I add, as if this is a revelation.
“Yes,” she says. “And you’re living together. That’s not an accident.”
I rub my thumb along the handle of the mug. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
She leans forward slightly. Not intrusive. Just present.
“You know what messes things up?” she says quietly. “Standing still because you’re afraid to want something.”
That lands harder than I expect.
“I’m not saying rush,” she adds. “Or label anything. Or make grand declarations. God knows you’d panic.”
I huff a breath that might be a laugh.
“I’m saying don’t pretend this is nothing when it’s clearly something. That kind of pretending always costs more in the end.”
