Page 33 of Because of Me

After another long drink, she places the cup on the table and smiles up at me. “Thank you.”

“It was nothing,” I say, reaching behind me to turn the machine back on and make a coffee of my own. Kitch finally unwinds herself from my legs, and once my coffee—microwave milk and all—is made I head to the table and find her curled in Amira’s lap.

They purr together as Amira scratches behind Kitch’s ears.

“Do you know where Ella is?” I ask as I sit down.

“Her door is open; I don’t think she came home last night.”

I slap my free hand to my sternum in mock astonishment. “The nerve! I feel like a parent ready to lecture my child about the importance of coming home.”

Amira’s gaze turns serious as she reaches for her mug. “Don’t, if she was living with any other of our family members, she actually would receive a lecture. I’m glad we can offer her the freedom.”

“Would she really?”

“I did.” Amira tilts one shoulder up as she finishes her coffee. “A lot of my family, not just my mum and dad but like aunties and uncles and the rest, are not very progressive.”

“That must be hard.”

My own mother was the opposite, she cared less than most, and I was free to come and go as I pleased from a very young age. Too young, probably. My stomach sinks as I wonder what it might have been like to grow up with a parent who paid attention. What Amira has described feels like all too much, but an experience that fell somewhere in the middle might have been nice.

If I ever have a child of my own—ifbecause I haven’t decided if I want to or not—I’d want them to feel comfortable to do their own thing and safe knowing their wellbeing matters to me. Surely, that’s not too hard for a parent to handle. Although, given the current sample pool, maybe it is asking too much.

“My mother was the opposite,” I admit. “She didn’t care what I was doing or who I was with or what time I came home. She didn’t even care if I came home.”

“That must have been almost as hard. I’m sorry.”

As a teen, having a practically absent mother and a very absent father was almost a godsend. I had all the freedom every adolescent kid thinks they deserve. The realisation stung a little as an early adult, but moving to Melbourne gave me the chance to finally let it all go.

With a shrug, I brush off Amira’s pity. “I’m not. The best thing about inheriting the winery was that it forced me to move away from her.”

“Still.” She grabs the now empty coffee mugs and heads for the kitchen. As she stacks them into the dishwasher, Kitch follows her feet.

“Is it breakfast time?” Amira purrs down at the cat. Looking up at me she adds, “Did you feed her yet?”

“I did, but she would probably eat again if you offered. I think that’s why my grandmother named her after the kitchen.”

Amira gasps, stepping back to look down at Kitch’s tabby fur. “That makes so much sense. I wondered where her weird name came from.”

“I am making assumptions, but that’s the most logical one, right? It’s either because of her love of food, or my grandmother thought her fur looked like the horrid 1980s style wooden cabinetry in the kitchen back at home.”

My ears throb at the thought of my grandmother’s old house beinghome.It’s never felt like it, and now I’ve spent some time here, I can’t imagine going back. It’s so big and empty and … lonely. And the interior design is incredibly dated. It’s my own fault, given I haven’t put any time into making the place feel like mine. It’s still full of my grandmother’s old furniture and nick-nacks, things I know I should get rid of or move into storage. But I’ve never cared enough to make the space my own. Now though, it’s going to suck when it’s time to move back.

“Either way, it’s cute. Even if it is a little unusual.” Amira scoops Kitch into her arms and carries her to the small patch of sun by the window. She wobbles as she sits down, holding Kitch in her lap as she leans against the side wall with her legs stretched out. In the sun, Kitch arches her back in a stretch before curling up. “She loves this spot. We should get her a climbing tree. Do you have one at home?”

“No, I … I never thought about it. Everything she has came from my grandmother. I don’t know enough about cats to know if anything is missing.”

“Where does she sit when you are there?”

“On the back of the couch. In the sun.” Now I’ve been forced to think about it, I’m sure the cat would appreciate one of those tall frames. “I’ll get her one. As long as you don’t mind having it in the room?”

“Noah, the only thing I like about having you here, is having Kitch here. She can have whatever furniture she wants.”

Something deep in my chest cracks a little. Maybe she meant it as a joke; it would go with our typical banter-style communication. But still, I can’t help but wonder if deep down she really means it. If she’s desperate for this whole arrangement to be over.

Amira seems oblivious to my internal breakdown, patting around in the pockets of her robe. “Where’s my phone, I’m ordering her a tree.”

Kitch falls from her lap as Amira stands. The cat’s claws catch in the tie of her robe, making it fall open to reveal her pyjama top once more. It barely hides the shape of her breasts, the firm peak of her nipple underneath the seam between the lace trim and the soft satin. I don’t mean to stare, especially when she’s asked me not to. But it’s like trying not to be distracted by the Christmas lights while driving. I can’t help it.

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