Page 14 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
I snort. “Careful. If you start getting sentimental, I’ll invoice you for emotional support.”
Ben laughs. “That’s fair.”
“Night, Ben.”
“Night, Jasper.”
I hang up and slide the phone into my back pocket.
I rub a hand over my face, already regretting offering to let this woman even have a look.
I lock the door, flick off the hall light, when my phone rings again.
“Callum!” I greet my best friend.
“I need your help, mate,” he replies instead of a greeting.
“Well, you are in luck, apparently I agree to anything today.”
Chapter four
Merry Ex-Mas, You Filthy Animal
Miranda
SJ is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bedroom floor, surrounded by what appears to be the entire contents of his toy chest, three drawers, and the deep void under his bed. There’s a dinosaur in each hand, a book open on his lap, and a half-eaten banana on the duvet behind him, because obviously this is now a buffet.
He looks up. “I don’t know what to bring, Mum. What if I forget something important?”
“You won’t. We’ll make a list. Lists solve everything.”
He squints at me. “Even climate change?”
“Almost everything,” I amend, gently tugging a sock off the corner of his pillow. “Start with the things you use all the time. What couldn’t you live without?”
He considers this like a small, serious accountant preparing for an audit. “Blue Rexy. My Spider-Man mug. And the soft pillow, not the lumpy one.”
I nod, dutifully setting Blue Rexy in the ‘must-pack’ pile. “Excellent choices. Mug we’ll wrap in your jumper.”
He frowns at the rest of the room. “What about the pirate ship? It’s too big.”
“You’ll still come here, love. Dad’s keeping your room.”
“Yeah but... what if it feels different?”
It already does feel different.
Since I caught Sim-Sim with his trousers around his ankles we have been cohabitating. The atmosphere had been tense, even if we tried to not have any arguments in front of SJ. But still. It hasn’t been the same.
I sit next to SJ on the floor, knees cracking like bubble wrap. “It will feel different. But different doesn’t have to mean worse.”
He doesn’t reply. Just strokes the edge of his book absentmindedly.
I don’t know how to make this part easier. For him or for me. I don’t want to overpromise, or underplay it, or tell him it’ll all be fine when I don’t know what Tuesday looks like.
But I know this: I won’t let this break him. Break us.
“Dad’s still your dad,” I say gently. “And I’m still your mum. And wherever you are, we’ll make it feel like home. Deal?”
