Lucy is hunched overthe big table, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth, colouring with the kind of focus that suggests nothing short of a fire alarm will break it.
I’m at the hob, nudging a pan back into line, the thud echoing through the open plan kitchen slash living room. The flat does that. Sounds travel. High ceilings, hard floors, too much space for a single person.
“Uncle Geoff,” Lucy says suddenly. “Ivy went to the hairdresser.”
“That’s exciting,” I reply, chopping onions.
“She got her fringe cut,” Lucy continues. “It was aproperhaircut.”
I hum in what I hope is the correct register of interest.
“She sat still,” Lucy adds. “I didn’t. But Ivy said that was okay because I didn’t get a haircut.”
“That sounds very educational.”
Lucy nods, satisfied, and presses harder with the pen. “I like Ivy.”
I slide the onions into the pan and listen to them sizzle. “Yes, you do.”
“She smells nice,” Lucy says. “And she knows about hair. Daddy doesn’t.”
I smile to myself and reach for the wooden spoon hanging by the cooker, missing the hook and clacking it lightly against the brick.
“She let me choose the clips,” Lucy goes on. “Daddy said one was sensible. Ivy said two was a statement.”
I turn. Lucy is holding up her picture, clearly expecting feedback.
“That’s… bold,” I say. “Who am I?”
“That’s you,” she replies. “You’re tall.”
I study the stick figure with its alarming leg-to-body ratio. “Accurate.”
She goes back to colouring. “When are Daddy and Ivy picking me up?”
“Later,” I say. “After work.”
Lucy sighs. It’s an impressive sigh for someone under six. “Daddy works a lot.”
“He does.”
“And Ivy works too.”
“She does.”
Lucy taps her pen against the table. “Their work is important.”
She goes quiet after that, which is usually the moment something clicks into place in her head.
I stir the pan and let her think. Theo’s childminder is away this week, annual leave that can’t be moved, and so Lucy is being passed between me and Jasper like a small, determined baton. No fuss. No drama. Just family doing what family does when the spreadsheet says there’s a gap.
Lucy doesn’t need to know that part. She just knows she’shere. With me. And tomorrow she’ll be somewhere else that still feels safe.
“I like being home with Daddy and Ivy. But sometimes,” she says slowly, “I come here.”
“Yes.”
“And sometimes I go to Uncle Jasper’s.”
