I groan, letting my head fall back against the cushion. “Mum, it’s not like that. I told you she needed a break. I was just being nice.”
“Oliver Rhys Bradshaw,” she says, and I immediately wince. “She calls you Ollie.”
I blink. “So?”
She tilts her head, like I’ve walked straight into this one. “There have been only two people in your entire life that have ever called you Ollie. Me.” She pauses. “And Henry.”
The room falls silent for a moment. It usually does whenever one of us says his name. It’s not that either of us avoids talking about him. It’s just that the air seems to shift whenever we do.
I look away toward the telly. “It doesn’t mean anything, Mum.”
“Bollocks.” Mum leans forward and smiles. “It means everything. You have never let anyone else call you that. You’re letting her in, letting her know you. That’s not nothing.”
I shake my head slowly. “And? She’s leaving, Mum. She signed a contract just for the season. She’ll be gone when it’s over. Those are her rules.”
“Sod the rules,” Mum says, eyes warm but steady. “Why’s that matter?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if she doesn’t leave? What if she wants to stay?” Mum watches me like she can see through the walls I’m trying to keep up. “And even if she does leave… why does that mean you can’t feel anything now? Why wait until it’s too late?”
I don’t know what to say. I’ve spent so long pushing people away, keeping everything locked up tight.
I glance around the room, taking in all the photos she holds on to. “Are you ever lonely here?” I ask softly.
“Sometimes, yeah.” Mum smiles, but it’s wistful. “But I feel both of you boys here. Every mark, every daft mistake. I see the hole you put in the wall when you decided to play football inside. I see the dent at the bottom of the stairs when you wrestled each other over the remote. I see the fence Henry broke when he was running to make it home before curfew. I see you boys in every bit of this house, and that keeps me warm.”
My throat tightens. Every memory feels so vivid, like I can see them playing in front of me on the wall like a projector.
“But, Ollie," she continues, "there’s still moments ahead for you. You can’t let them pass you by because you’re scared, or you’ve already written the ending in your head. Life doesn’t work like that.”
Mum pats my leg, smiles, and heads upstairs to bed.
The telly continues to hum in the background, but I’m still staring at that photo. But this time, I smile.
18
into the box
HOMETOWN GLORY BY ADELE
Addison is in my bed.
In my childhood home.
That still feels weird.
I’ve been up for hours. Not because I couldn't sleep, but because for the first time in ages, I slept great.
I chatted with Mum before she left for work. I’ve tried telling her she doesn’t need to keep going, that she’s earned the right to slow down, but she always says she’d go mad without it.
I’ve been trying to keep the noise down so Addison could sleep in peacefully, but I can hear her rustling about upstairs.
I make coffee instead of tea. Addison’s more of a coffee person. I pop some bread into the toaster and grab the butter and jam from the fridge. It feels… domestic. But also nice.
By the time she enters the kitchen, her hair’s damp from a shower, her cheeks flushed from the heat of it.
“Morning,” I say, setting a plate in front of her.
