“Hey,” she answers, smiling faintly.
“Sleep okay?”
“I slept great, actually.” She glances around the room. “Where’s your mother?”
“Work,” I tell her, grabbing milk from the fridge.
“She still works?”
I can’t help the laugh that slips out. “Insists on it, yeah. Too stubborn to stop even though she could. She’ll be back later.”
“What are we up to today?”
“The official town tour,” I say proudly, puffing my chest out a bit. “Eat up. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”
I like the way her eyes light up at that, like she’s actually excited to see where I grew up.
By the time we head out, it’s shaping up to be a perfect day. There’s no rain, but the sky is overcast, sheltering the town under a big gray blanket. There is a crisp chill in the air and the faint earthy smell that old towns seem to go hand in hand with.
“Ready?” I ask as we walk toward my car.
“Ready.” She nods and pulls a beanie over her head.
We chat for the quick five-minute drive into town, which ends with me cursing and ranting as I search for parking.
“Three quid to park, that’s a bloody piss-take,” I mutter, locking the car.
“Okay, I’m gonna take a guess here and say that means you’re annoyed?”
I can’t help but smile. “See, you’re British already.”
I lead her through winding lanes of cobbled streets and buildings that lean ever so slightly. There’s so much character in every inch of Stratton Wood. It’s like a postcard. Tudor-style buildings with white plaster, black beams, and iron overhead signs that squeak gently in the fall air.
“This one is the best chippy takeaway in town,” I say, pointing to a small brick storefront. “Spent way too much time here as a lad. Mum would tell me not to ruin my appetite for dinner, so obviously I ruined my appetite for dinner.”
We wander the town for over an hour, aimless in the best possible way. Our arms brush sometimes, and it feels almost deliberate.
I point out the bakery that sells pasties as big as your hand and the train station where Henry dared me to kiss Genny Lawson when I was twelve.
We cut down one of the narrower lanes, past the charity shop that’s been there longer than I’ve been alive. Addison slows, her gaze catching on the window display of secondhand clothing.
“We used to come here all the time,” I say before I can stop myself. “Mum would make a game out of it—see who could find the best bargain. I once got a pair of boots for two quid. I wore them down until they were nothing but a few straps of leather.”
Addison glances at me, brows knit in that way she gets when she’s really listening.
I shrug, trying to make it smaller than it was. But there were things children shouldn’t have had to worry about.
Like hearing your mum crying after she’d gone to bed because another bill had arrived. Learning which supermarket reduced food first and planning the weekly shop around it. Henry and I sitting completely still in the living room when debt collectors were at the front door. Or pretending I wasn’t hungry on nights she was working just so there was food left for her.
“It wasn’t easy,” I admit. “Mum worked two jobs just to keep us afloat. Some weeks it was beans on toast for dinner three nights running. But she never let it feel like we had less, you know? Birthdays stillhad cake. Christmas still had a tree. She always found a way to make magic. Looking back, I have no idea how she managed it.”
I’ve been staring into the shop window without seeing a thing. I clear my throat, stuffing my hands into my pockets.
“I used to be embarrassed about it,” I add. “I just wanted what everyone else had. But now… it feels like something to be proud of. We didn’t have much, but we had each other. And that was enough. That's what really matters.”
For a moment, she’s quiet.
“I didn’t grow up like that,” she says finally. “We had money. Too much of it, probably. Big apartment in the city, big garden, big everything… but half the time, it was just empty space. My parents worked a lot. Traveled a lot. Birthdays were catered events instead of kitchen-table parties. And I’d trade all of it for what you just described.”
