“Non. Nobody can help me. I must do this alone.”
“Mum,” I said. “I’m actually having a bit of a freak-out about, like, my relationship and my dog and shit. So could we maybe… I don’t know how to say this in a way that doesn’t sound ungrateful, but could we maybe focus less on guessing five-letter words and more on, say, me?”
“But her streak, man,” cried Judy. “Her streak!”
“No, no, no,” declared Mum, immediately appearing in shot. “My son is more important. Although”—she grinned slyly—“if you happen off the top of your head to know a five-letter word that goes something-o-something-e-r, that would be very helpful. Alternatively, it will destroy me entirely. It will depend if you are right or not.”
Surreptitiously, I googledtoday’s wordle solutionin another tab. “It’scover.”
“Could bemover,” suggested Judy. “Orlover. Orhover.”
“It’scover,” I said. “Trust me.”
Mum gave me theI know what you didlook that I knew too well from childhood. “Luc, you did not use the Googles.”
“No,” I lied.
Begrudgingly, almost defiantly, Mum typed the answer in. “You were correct, mon caneton, but I wish you to know that I do notfeel good about this victory. Now. What did you need your maman for?”
“It’s”—I shifted uncomfortably—“it’s about the dog.”
Her eyes widened. “The dog?” she cried. “Oh no. Is he dead? He is dead, isn’t he? Luc, you should have said that your dog was dead. That was much more important than the Wordle.”
“He’s not dead. He’s right here.” I pointed at Spud, who, to be fair, was nose down and half asleep in the crook of my arm.
“That is your dog?” asked Mum. “I thought it was a potato.”
“Why would I be cuddling a potato?”
“As your mother”—she gazed loftily at the ceiling—“it is not my place to judge.”
This was hard to process. On the one hand, I’d rather my mum didn’t think I regularly got on video calls with an emotional support potato. On the other hand, it was nice to know that, if I did, she’d be there for me. “This is Spud,” I explained.
“So it is a potato?”
“No, we called him Spud.”
“Why?”
“Because when he was very little, he looked like a potato.”
“He still looks like a potato.”
“He does not,” I insisted, “still look like a potato.”
“Luc, are you sure that is a dog and not a potato?”
“Yes. He’s got ears. How many potatoes have ears?”
“They have eyes.”
A thought dripped into my brain like ice water. “Mum, are you winding me up?”
“Maybe a little bit.” She grinned unrepentantly. “Though, honestly, he does look like a potato.”
“You’re going to give him a complex.”
“Don’t worry,” Judy joined in. “Dogs are very resilient animals.”
