Page 103 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
Sim-Sim laughs. “How many helpings?”
“Three,” SJ says, groaning happily. “And garlic bread.”
“Rookie mistake,” Sim-Sim replies. “Always pace yourself when there’s garlic bread involved.”
“I regret nothing,” SJ mumbles into the cushion.
“Spoken like a true champion,” Sim-Sim says. “What was it, Mum’s famous pasta?”
“Yep. The one with the crunchy bits on top.”
“Ah, the good stuff. I miss that pasta. You’re a lucky man.”
SJ grins. “I know.”
They both chuckle, and I find myself smiling too… watching them fall into that easy rhythm they always seem to manage when food and jokes are involved.
Sim-Sim clears his throat lightly. “So… the real reason I called. I just wanted to check what time I should come and collect you both on the 23rd. And… Miranda, are you still coming for Christmas?”
Before I can even open my mouth, SJ bolts upright like he’s been electrocuted.
“You’re coming?! You’re coming for Christmas?!”
His eyes are wide, delighted, hopeful in that pure, eight-year-old way that makes your heart twist and your guilt flare all at once.
“I—” I glance at the phone, then at SJ. “We haven’t finalised anything yet—”
“Dad, she’s coming, right?” SJ barrels on, already climbing off the sofa like he needs to start packing immediately. “You said she might, and now sheis, right?!”
I glare at the phone. Or, more accurately, at Sim-Sim’s voice.
“I said I’d ask,” Sim-Sim says, all faux-innocent, like he didn’t just lob a conversational grenade into my kitchen. “Thought it was worth checking.”
I close my eyes briefly. I want to kick him. Just a light, satisfying shin tap.
“Miranda?” he prompts, all casual.
SJ is bouncing now. Actually bouncing. “Mum, please say yes! Granny does the Christmas crackers with the good toys, remember? And the quiz! And the gingerbread decorating! And if you come, you can be on my team!”
I exhale slowly and pinch the bridge of my nose. "We'll talk about it later, sweetheart," I say gently, offering him a smile that feels a bit too tight.
“Okay,” SJ says, still practically glowing. “But later can it be a yes?”
I ruffle his hair, steering him toward the hallway. “Go on, go brush your teeth and get your uniform sorted for tomorrow.”
He calls our a cheerful “Bye, Dad, love you,” and disappears into his room with a clatter.
I take the phone off speaker.
“What was that?”
A pause. “What?”
“You ambushed me.”
Another pause, this one heavier. “It wasn’t meant to be—”
“You told him I was coming. Before I said I was.”
