I watch his fingers close around it and have the deeply inconvenient thought that I could get used to this far too quickly.
My phone starts vibrating against the counter.
I glance at the screen.
Mum video calling.
Of course.
I answer before she can hang up and immediately escalate to Dad, because she’ll assume I’ve been murdered.
Mum’s face fills the screen.
“Well,” she says, “you do still exist.”
“Morning to you too.”
Behind her is the familiar blur of my parents’ kitchen. Dad with a newspaper. Someone small tearing past the doorway, which means my brother is already there with the kids.
Mum peers at me.
“You look suspiciously cheerful.”
“I’m eating breakfast.”
“Hm.”
Her eyes narrow.
I become aware, rather unhelpfully, that Philip is sitting directly opposite me in my T-shirt and boxers, halfway through a hash brown.
He lowers his gaze very firmly to his plate as if he is suddenly fascinated by poached eggs.
I bite back a smile.
Mum catches it instantly.
“What are you smiling at?”
“Nothing.”
“You are.”
“I’m eating.”
“You don’t smile at eggs, Mark.”
Across from me Philip lifts his eyes and gives me a very clear don’t you dare.
I consider it.
Ignore it.
“Are you alone?” Mum asks.
I take a sip of coffee.
“No.”
