“I hoped it might be.”
That nearly finishes me.
Not because it is dramatic.
Because it is not.
Because once, Pippa would have told me she was not hungry, did not need anything, could sort herself out, was perfectly capable of operating a toaster. Now she lets herself come home expecting warmth. Food. Me.
“Bacon rolls,” I say.
“Good.”
“And coffee.”
“Better.”
“And fruit.”
“Ambitious.”
“Your sister says you need vitamins.”
“My sister talks too much.”
“She loves you.”
Pippa is quiet for half a second.
Then she says, “She does.”
No fight.
No deflection.
Just tired acceptance of being loved.
I lean one hand on the counter and close my eyes briefly, because this woman has no idea how effortlessly she can undo me.
“Drive carefully,” I say.
“I will. See you in a bit.”
She comes in at eight-oh-eight.
I know because I have become embarrassingly attuned to the sound of the blue door sticking, the key in the lock, the tread of her boots on the stairs. I am at the kettle when the flat door opens.
She steps inside and closes it behind her.
For a second, she just stands there.
Uniform. Tired eyes. Hair flattened slightly at one side. Shoulders held in that way she does when she has been responsible for too many hours and has not yet remembered she can put it down.
Then she sees me.
And she does put it down.
Not all at once.
