Page 92 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
She pauses, fingers stilling.
“But he shows up, and for a second, I remember the version of him I wanted to believe in. The one who used to make SJ laugh in the middle of a supermarket. The one who didn’t cheat. So yes, I get a bit confused. Not because I want him back. Just because it’s strange to look at someone who used to be your whole life and realise you’re not angry anymore. Just tired.”
I nod, once. She watches me, like she’s waiting for something.
“That alright?” she asks eventually, voice careful now.
“Yeah,” I say. “It is.”
I guess it has to be.
Chapter twenty-five
We Three Queens of Bluewater Are
Miranda
The toast is a bit too dark on one side, and the butter refuses to spread like a reasonable dairy product. I give up halfway through and let it clump where it wants.
SJ is sat at the table in his Spider-Man pyjamas, cross-legged on the chair, hair sticking up like he’s been electrocuted in his sleep. He’s already halfway through his cereal and deep into a dramatic retelling of a dream.
“Rexy had to cross this giant pit of lava, right, but the bridge was made of jelly. So he said, ‘I’m not falling in that again,’ and tied a parachute to his tail instead.”
I nod. “Practical.”
“He still crashed,” SJ adds, shovelling a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “But then all the other dinosaurs clapped, so it was fine.”
“Good to know applause cures lava injuries,” I say, dropping a piece of toast onto his plate. “Want jam?”
“Yes please. But not the weird one with seeds. That one gets stuck in my teeth.”
I hand him the raspberry jam without pips.
We eat in the quiet rhythm of weekday mornings—chewing, mumbling, the occasional sound of milk sloshing and the soft thud of a dinosaur being repositioned beside the juice carton.
My tea is going cold. Again.
Jasper’s mug from last night is still by the sink, rinsed and upside down. He left just after five, same as always—early enough that SJ doesn’t notice, quiet enough that I only woke when I felt the blanket lift and the brush of lips on my shoulder.
SJ clears his throat in that very deliberate way kids do when they’ve decided the next thing they say is Important.
“Mum?”
“Mm?”
He picks at the crust of his toast, eyes not quite meeting mine. “Do you think you and Dad will get back together?”
I freeze. Not dramatically. Just long enough that the silence stretches into something noticeable.
I set my tea down.
“Where’s that come from?”
He shrugs, still looking down at his plate. “You just seem to get on better now. Like when he came to the fair. You didn’t look like you wanted to punch him.”
“Well, I didn’tnotwant to,” I say lightly, but it doesn’t land the way I mean it to.
He looks up.
