Page 15 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
He nods. Still quiet. But he leans into me, head on my shoulder. Just for a second.
I breathe in the smell of banana, crayons, and the weird plasticky tang of that slime he’s obsessed with.
“Alright,” I say, patting his knee. “Let’s get strategic. We’ve got one box, one bag, and one slightly overstuffed tote bag. Choose wisely.”
He grins, and just like that, we’re moving again.
We pack in a rhythm. I fold clothes while he lines up action figures like they’re about to enter a very inefficient Noah’s Ark. He chooses his favourite books. I sneak in an extra pair of pyjamas because I know how this goes.
We argue about whether the giant stuffed sloth will fit—it will not. He insists on bringing a framed photo of the three of us from a holiday in Wales. Sim-Sim, still pretending, SJ grinning with ice cream all over his face, me looking... hopeful. I hesitate for half a breath, then nod.
“Let’s wrap it in bubble wrap. We’ll stick it on your shelf at the new place.”
“What’s it like?” he asks, not looking at me.
“It’s smaller,” I say, wrapping the photo in an old scarf and laying it gently in the box. “And a bit less...fancy. No marble countertops or taps that cost more than a family car. But it’s in a proper village. You know Little Hadlow from when we visited Amelia. It’s cute. There is an actual butcher, and a post office that sells weird sweets from the eighties.”
He looks vaguely interested but doesn’t bite.
“There’s loads of green space,” I add, nudging a pair of pyjamas into the corner. “You can run around without someone reporting us to the building management. Amelia and Ben live five minutes away. And you’ll get to play with Smutty.”
That gets a reaction. He grins. “He’s so grumpy.”
“Exactly. Like a tiny, disapproving feline overlord. He’ll love you. Eventually. Probably. If you bring snacks.”
SJ pulls at a loose thread on his jumper, still frowning a bit.
“All my friends are here.”
I sit back on my heels and nod. “I know. And you’ll still see them. You’re still going to the same school, remember?”
“But—”
“Even if it means your dad has to hire a driver,” I say, trying not to sound smug about it. “Which he has. Full suit, little hat. You’ll be the most chauffeured eight-year-old this side of the royal family.”
He snorts. “That’s weird.”
“It’s posh. And it means you’re not stuck on a train. You’ll see your dad on weekends and you’ll spend a week a month at your dad’s as well.”
He thinks about that, chewing the inside of his cheek.
“Do I get a key to the new place?”
“Of course you do.”
“Can I make a den?”
“Only if I’m allowed in.”
“You’re not,” he says, deadpan.
I press a hand to my heart. “Betrayed. Day one.”
He grins, but it’s lopsided, like he’s still trying to piece all this together.
I know the feeling.
We sit in the half-packed room for a moment, surrounded by soft toys and a future we’re still packing up. The light’s gone flat outside, grey and dull. One of his T-shirts drapes off the side of the bed like it’s thinking about jumping.
