The In-laws Are Visiting for Three Days, But Our Son Hasn’t Lived Here in Ages!

Lucy lingered at the front door, keys clutched as though the ringing were a stranger. Her coat dripped, an umbrella spilling tiny rainbeads, the milk bag in her hand sporting a torn handle. The dusk was folding in, the stairwell already scented with someones supper and the faint perfume of a cat.

Behind the door stood Evelyn Whitmore, her knitted scarf wrapped tight, patent shoes gleaming, a fourwheeled suitcase rolling beside her, a steaming parcel cradled in her arms. Her voice sounded like it belonged to a heroine from a blackandwhite cinemabright, a touch melodramatic.

Goodness, Ive arrived for three days, dear! Brought a cherry piePaul will love it, she announced, already stepping into the corridor while Lucy exhaled a weary sigh.

What a surprise you didnt tell me the code had changed, Evelyn added, I was about to leave, then turned the suitcase round, chased the handyman for the new entry number.

Lucy stayed silent, a vague nod to something perched on her shoulder, though the flat was oddly still. Uncomfortably still.

Wheres Paul? Evelyn asked, slipping into a different pair of shoes, glancing at the empty hook in the hallway. No mens coat, no boots, no hint of his scent or his chaos. Hell join us later, yes? Well all sit down to dinner; Ive brought a pot of pilaf. Peter, Pauls father, will swing by after a quick errand with a neighbour. And Sam? Still at nursery, I suppose?

A thin smile tugged at Lucys lips, as if a hidden string had been pulled.

His meeting ran over, Evelyn muttered, then fell silent, her eyes flickering too fast. She noted a solitary teacup on the shelf, a halfused bottle of shampoo in the bathroom, childrens drawings on the fridge, while Pauls photographs had vanished.

Evelyn set the pie on the table, unwrapped the pilaf container, and took Lucys hand. Dont worry, love. Breathe out. Well sit, well eat. Your dad will be here and youll have a laugh together. Hes a good sort.

Lucy nodded, sat, lifted a plate but did not eat. The kettle began to whistle loudly, as though scolding the silence.

Later they went to fetch Sam. Evelyn balanced mittens and a thermos of compote; Lucy walked quietly, clutching her sleeve. In the lift, on the way back, they brushed against their neighbour, Lena, who beamed before slipping into a rapid, familiar tirade:

Lucy, your ex is off again with that paintedup lady from the shop, the one with the pram? He never looks after the child, does he?

Evelyn pressed her lips together, ignoring both Lucy and Lena.

Lena, Lucy whispered, breathless.

Nothing to it, love. Truth is truth. Everyone knows anyway.

When evening fell, Evelyn pulled a blanket from the wardrobe, carefully laying the makeshift bed on the sofa. She held a pillow for a long moment, then, without looking, murmured, Hes gone? Wheres my son? What happened?

Lucy stood in the kitchen doorway, back straight, hands on the kettle.

Three months ago. He said hed go to a meeting and never returned.

Who with?

Lucy gave no answer, her gaze drifting past.

Evelyn settled, placed the blanket beside her, set a small plasticmoulded cake on her lap. I baked this for you. He promised everything was fine that the four of you would go to the seaside this summer He

She gasped as if the breath had been stolen, as though shed climbed an endless staircase. Lucy approached, set a teacup nearby but did not touch. The room fell into a hush, the old doubledecker bus outside droning like a distant dream. Luke, the cat, prowled the hallways shadows while each woman sank into her own stillness.

A door slammed with a familiar crackPeter always slammed it with force, as if to remind the house of his presence. He burst in, lively in a coat with a fur collar, a bag of Spanish oranges tucked under his arm and a newspaper tucked into his jacket.

Good day, lovelies! Look what Ive broughtsweet oranges, just like the ones we ate as children.

He shrugged off his coat, drifted toward the kitchen where three gazes met: Lucys, weary; Evelyns, edged with anxiety; and a bright, childlike stare from Sam, who, hearing his grandfathers voice, dropped his biscuit and lunged forward, clinging to Peters trousers as if to a tree.

Whats the silence? Peter asked, baffled. Did I come at the wrong time?

Paul Evelyn began, but her voice jumped. She looked at Lucy as if seeking permission.

Paul left, Lucy said calmly, as though shed rehearsed it a hundred times. Three months ago.

The bag of oranges thumped softly on the table, the newspaper rustled after. Peter sat, stared out the window as if searching for an answer in the night sky.

You think youve ruined everything here? he boomed suddenly. Youve driven him away, Lucyharped on him like a nail in wood. He came home looking like a convict!

Peter, Evelyn whispered.

What, Peter? Everything is tangled, and now hello! You simply he waved his hand, spoiled it.

Lucy said nothing, merely carried a cup to the sink, then stood rooted, torn between leaving and staying.

Evelyns face grew pale. She rose, pressed a trembling hand onto Peters shoulder; his reaction lagged.

He told me everything was fine. Sam is healthy, youre doing great, a holiday is planned. Do you see how he lied? To his mother, to us.

Peter lifted his eyes, for the first time at a loss for words.

I I thought he stammered. Hes not a child. He decides himself. Perhaps someone else

Hes been with someone for a long time, Lucy said without turning. He lives with her the one from work, the one he texted in the bathroom.

Peter rose, paced to the balcony, closed the door behind him. A cigarette sparked in the dusk, a lone beacon. He never smoked in front of the grandchild, yet now he did.

Ill call him, Lucy announced. Let him explain himself.

Evelyn said nothing, just closed her eyes.

The phone screen flashed the contact Paul. A ring, a few buzzing notes, then a hoarse voice answered:

Hello?

Come home. Now. Dad and Mum are here, Sam needs to talk.

A pause stretched, then a soft Alright. The line clicked.

Lucy peered out the window. Beyond the glass, someone was shoveling snow off a pathway, a white night, silent and cold.

Twenty minutes later the lock clicked; Paul slipped in as if the flat were his own. He wore the same puffy jacket from which Lucy once extracted gum wrappers and receipts. His hair was slightly disheveled, a faint trace of foreign cologne lingered. He halted at the doorway.

Hello, everyone, he said in a low tone.

Sam darted forward, stopped midstep. Paul sat awkwardly, pulling the boy close.

Hey, buddy. How are you? he asked.

You dont live with us, Sam replied matteroffactly, not as a rebuke but as a simple statement.

Paul pressed Sam against him, eyes low.

The kitchen swallowed the sound. Peter emerged from the balcony, a hint of smoke trailing. Evelyn looked at her son as if seeing him for the first time.

You told me she began. You told me everything was fine. That Lucy was brilliant. That Sam was happy. Did you lie, Paul?

I didnt want to hurt you.

And her? Evelyn turned to Lucy. Did you not want to hurt her? Or was it easier to just disappear?

Peters voice, thin, cut in: What have you done to your own mother?

Paul slumped, hands on the table as if surrendering.

I owe no one anything. Not you, not her. I left because I couldnt keep lying. I couldnt stay with Lucy, and I couldnt stay with you.

You left because staying felt weaker than speaking like a man, Evelyn spat. You betrayed her, us, yourself.

Lucy sat in the corner, mute, as though shed already known everything.

Evelyn moved to her son, touched his shoulder; her palm trembled.

You were better, Paul. I remember you differently.

He closed his eyes, saying nothing.

Sam peeked back into the kitchen, this time standing in the doorway, watching.

Paul rose, stepped back, his face hardened like a mask set in stone. He turned abruptly and left, the door closing with a soft thuda period at the end of a paragraph.

Morning broke, a dull light spilling over fresh snow on the windowsill. Peter read the paper, Sam ate porridge, Evelyn shifted dishes on the counter, and Lucy stood by the window.

Lucy straightened, her voice steadier: I can collect the appliances you gave usmicrowave, slow cooker, kettle. Take them if you wish. I was planning a renovation anyway. Changes wont stop us. It feels right to clear everything down to the studs.

Evelyn snapped around. Have you lost your mind? Its only dawn and youre already talking about possessions. We have nothing to split. Were not beggars. We ought to apologize, not chase after gadgets.

Sam, playing with toy cars on the carpet, peered up. Grandma, will dad come?

Evelyn inhaled deeply, crouched, and brushed his head. He will, love, but a bit later. Want a cartoon first?

Sam nodded.

Lucy lingered in the doorway, neither tears nor anger, just a hollow quiet after a long racketwhen the noise fades and only silence remains in the ears.

She set the kettle on; it roared like a soundtrack to their hush. Ahead lay a plain day, ordinary yet feeling like a fresh start.

The air smelled of soap and dry winter. Evelyn stood in the bathroom, washing the sink slowly, as if in meditation. Lucy entered, reached for a towel, then paused.

Leave it, Evelyn said without turning. Ill take it myself.

Lucy didnt answer, lifted the towel, placed it nearby, and waited.

I wasnt angry at you, she finally said. Im just tired of explaining that it wasnt only my fault.

Evelyn leaned on the sinks edge, shaking her head. I was angryat myself. At what I didnt see, at what I chose not to see. I thought you had everything: love, family, happiness. I told everyone that.

Lucy nodded. The two women were cramped in the small bathroom, bound together by a son, a house, a past.

Forgive me, Evelyn whispered. For everything. I truly thought you couldnt hold us all together. Yet I see now you were holding us all, even when we didnt need it.

Lucy sat on the tubs edge, quietly: Ill hold onto myself. Only myself. No one else.

From the kitchen came Sams voice, Mum, where are the shark socks? and a crash sounded.

And his, Lucy added, Ill keep him a little longer.

They smiled, not bewildered but with a weary, genuine femininity.

Later, at the doorway, they embraced for a long while. Peter stood nearby, shifting from foot to foot.

I was wrong too, he muttered. Men arent taught to speak, not as boys, not as grownups.

Learn, Lucy said. While theres someone to talk to.

He nodded.

Sam bolted up, slipped into shoes that didnt quite match, and raced up the stairs.

Well call you later, Evelyn said. Or you call us. Were family now, wherever we end up.

Lucy nodded, hugged him tight.

The flat was almost emptysimple furniture, boxes against the wall, a single mug on the sill. Lucy placed a spoon in a cup, poured boiling water, opened the window; a cool draft slipped in, fresh and new.

Sam lay on the floor, drawing a sky with a green marker.

Why isnt it blue? he asked.

Because spring will be green, he replied. And spring is green.

Lucy watched his hand sweep across the paper, then adjusted his collar.

Shall we get bread later?

Yes! And oranges, with the leaves on them!

She smiled.

Outside a tram hummed, laughter drifted from the street below, light fell on the floor. In that light lay everythingpain, forgiveness, and the sense of a beginning.

Lucy sat beside her, simply sat. No fear, for the first time, no fear.