Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
When Lucy announces that dinner is almost ready, we take our seats at the dining table after she refuses my latest offer of help. Suspicious clangs and several choice words echo from the kitchen, and the urge to ignore my daughter and run, or hobble to her rescue is almost physical. But…I bite my lip. Clamp my hands together. Wait impatiently for her to appear in the doorway.
“Come on, Lucy, we’re starving out here!” Ben calls, slumping in his chair like he’s about to pass out from malnutrition at any second.
“Ben.” I say his name firmly at the same time Will, who’s sitting next to him, shoves him lightly with his elbow.
“Yours can go to the cat if you don’t shut it!” Lucy yells back from the kitchen. A moment later, she comes in with two plates and passes them to me and her dad before going back for hers and Ben’s.
Will and I share a silent exchange, both impressed. “This looks delicious,” I say as I scoop some mashed potatoes onto my fork. “Tastes it, too.”
Unfortunately, as I finish speaking, Ben starts coughing and spluttering. “Bloody hell! I think that’s burned an actual hole in my throat.” He chugs some water and rubs at his neck. “What did you put in it, acid?”
Lucy’s expression crumples. “What do you mean?”
Confused, I stab a piece of steak, swirl it around in gravy and pop it in my mouth.
Oh.
Wow.
Trying to keep my face as even as possible, I suck in some air in an effort to cool my mouth before the heat eradicates my taste buds. “It’s just a little peppery,” I say. “Don’t be so dramatic, Ben.”
Looking at Will, I can see him making the same effort as I am, though he hasn’t managed to stop his cheeks from glowing.
“Did I put too much in?” Lucy asks, appearing afraid to taste it for herself. “Is it awful? Did I ruin it?”
“No,” I assure her, preparing another forkful, sure to mix this one with a large dollop of mashed potatoes. “It’s beautiful, Lucy.”
“Agreed,” Will says.
“Taste it, sis,” Ben pipes up. “They’re saying that because they’re parents and they’re trying to, I don’t know, support you or something. Because this tastes like dog crap. I can’t eat it.”
If my leg wasn’t swollen, I would kick my son in his shin.
Lucy’s shoulder’s fall. She takes a bite…and retches. “Oh…God.”
I try to stop it, really I do, but I burst out laughing. “Oh, baby, it’s not that bad.”
Her nostrils flare as she reaches for water, just like her brother. “My stomach just tried to crawl out my arse, Mum. It is that bad.”
“Well,” Will begins, shovelling in another round of food. “I like it.” I don’t know how he’s doing it, but he keeps eating, forkful after forkful, his cheeks glowing redder and redder.
The rest of us stick to the mash and vegetables, although I pilfer some of Will’s courage and eat a little of the brutally peppered steak. For half an hour, we’re a real family again. It’s like nothing has changed. We eat together. Laugh together. Talk about our day. Ben tells Will that he wants to give up his graphic design course to start a mechanic apprenticeship, and Will helps me guide him, like he always has, and together as a family we come up with a plan. A reversal of what he’s doing currently, in effect. From now on, his main focus will be on car mechanics, and he will study design, which he still holds a passion for, part time instead.
Everything is so wonderfully normal.
Until the kids go upstairs, and Will and I don’t retreat to the couch to cuddle and watch soap operas. Until I don’t get to pinch his bum so that he’ll hand over the remote, or comb his hair with my fingers, or feel his lips touch mine.
Until I remember the main reason I invited him here tonight.
Instead, we’re back at the dining table after clearing away the dishes. I have a glass of wine, while Will nurses a cup of tea. “So, Ben’s party,” Will begins, “Have you found a venue?” It’s why Will’s here, to discuss our son’s eighteenth birthday next month. At least, partly why he’s here.
“Down to two choices. I’ll email you the links. See what you think.”
“Two adults,” he says. “How the hell did we do that?”
“Pretty successfully, I’d say. They have good attitudes, don’t do drugs, are only marginally annoying.”
Will laughs, but it fades quickly. “Look, I hate to even bring this up, but it’s more important that Ben has a good night. So, if you want me to skip the party, I—”
“Why on earth would I want that?”
As soon as his eyebrows pinch, I know exactly why.
“My mother,” I answer for him. My mother who has loved Will like a son since we were children ourselves. My mother who supported us getting married at a time when barely anyone married young anymore. My mother…who has now claimed she never wants to set eyes on him again.