“Thank you for the invite.”
“And if plans change,” she says, pointing at the screen, “you come for lunch.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
He says it kindly enough that Mum accepts defeat with only moderate visible reluctance.
I keep my face neutral.
Keep my hand resting where it is against Philip’s thigh.
Keep my breathing even.
Wednesday.
Three days.
Not even that, really.
Today is half gone already.
I hate that my brain does that maths automatically.
Mum is still talking.
Dad says something about the children.
Philip laughs politely.
I answer where required.
But part of me has snagged on that one sentence and refuses to move on.
Because it reminds me that Philip is already speaking in departures.
Already arranging goodbyes.
Already fitting this weekend around the life that starts somewhere else.
Eventually Mum winds down enough to let us go.
I end the call and set the phone face down on the counter.
The kitchen falls quiet again.
Philip lets out a breath beside me.
“Well,” he says.
I huff a faint laugh.
“Sorry about that.”
He smiles sideways at me.
“She’s intense.”
“That’s a polite version.”
