The house still carried the faint scent of damp shoes and a jacket that had not yet fully dried, hanging on the lower hook where my sons coat should have been. He slipped in almost silently, his shortcropped hair neat, his dark uniform crisp. I noticed his eyes had changedno longer hard, but wary. I hurriedly smoothed the rug by the door and managed a thin smile.
Come in everything’s ready. Ive aired your room and put fresh sheets on the bed, I said.
He gave a small nod, half thanks, half politeness, the meaning hard to read. He set his suitcase against the wall, paused in the doorway, and stared at the familiar faded diamondpatterned wallpaper, the shelf of his childhood books. It seemed as though nothing had moved, though the air was cooler now; the central heating had been switched off a week earlier.
In the kitchen I laid out the plates: his requested cabbage soup and potatoes with parsley from the greengrocer. I tried to keep my voice steady.
You could have called earlier I was hoping to meet you at the station.
He shrugged. I wanted to get there on my own.
A silence stretched, broken only by the clink of a spoon against a bowl. He ate slowly, almost without speaking, offering brief answers about the road, about his unitthe commander was a decent man. I caught myself looking for a reason to ask about his future, yet I could not bring myself to speak plainly of work or plans.
After dinner I turned to cleaning the kitchen; the familiar motions of my hands soothed me more than any conversation could. He retreated to his room, leaving the door ajar; from the corner I could see only the back of a chair and the edge of his suitcase.
Later, he fetched a glass of water and lingered by the livingroom window. A gentle draught from the cracked sash reminded me of early summer: the sun set late, casting a soft glow on the sill where a few potted herbs sat.
The next morning I awoke before him, hearing his faint breathing through the thin bedroom wall, careful not to clatter dishes unnecessarily. The flat felt tighter: his belongings reclaimed their old spots in the hallway and bathroom; a toothbrush beside my chipped mug looked oddly bright.
He spent most of the day hunched over his laptop or scrolling his phone, emerging only for breakfast or lunch. I tried to keep the talk lightweather, neighboursbut his replies were glib, and he slipped away after a sentence or two.
One afternoon I bought fresh dill and spring onions at the market.
Look, your favourite herbs, I said.
He glanced, distant.
Thanks maybe later?
The greens wilted quickly on the table; the flat grew warmer as evening fell, and I hesitated to open the windows fullyThomas had never liked draughts.
Evenings were marked by awkward pauses that stretched longer than our conversations. He rarely praised the food, often leaving his plate untouched or asking to keep it for breakfastappetite gone. Occasionally he forgot to clear his cup or left the bread box ajar after a midnight snack.
I noticed these small slips; he had once cleared his place without prompting. Now I felt uneasy chastising a grown man, so I quietly swept up the crumbs myself.
Little things multiplied unnoticed: a towel vanished from the bathroomThomas had taken it to his room; the postbox key was misplaced, leading both of us on a frantic search through bags and receipts.
One morning I found the bread box empty.
We should buy some bread, I remarked.
Thomas muttered something from his room.
Fine, he replied.
I planned to shop after work, but a long queue at the chemist held me up, and I returned home exhausted as dusk settled.
Thomas stood by the fridge, phone in hand. I opened the bread box automatically; it was empty. I sighed, You said youd buy bread?
He turned sharply, his voice louder than usual.
I forgot! I have other things to do!
Embarrassment flared, irritation broke through my fatigue.
Well, of course you always forget everything! I snapped.
Our voices rose in turn, the cramped kitchen feeling oppressive. Each of us tried to prove a point, but beneath the clamor lay something else: weariness of each other, an inability to find common ground, a fear of losing the closeness that had once seemed so simple.
Silence settled over the flat as if the fierce energy of the quarrel had dissolved into the night air. The desk lamp cast a dim pool of light onto the empty bread box, stretching a long shadow. I lay on my back, listening for the faintest soundsa switch click, the distant hum of water in the bathroom. Thomas moved cautiously, as if fearing to disturb the uneasy peace that now lingered in walls that felt both familiar and foreign.
I thought back to the days before his service; then things were cleareryou could ask straight, scold for missed rubbish, or for arriving late to dinner. Now every word seemed a minefield: dont offend, dont upset the fragile balance. Beneath the argument lay the fatigue of my long workday and his long silence within those four walls.
It was almost two in the morning when I heard soft footsteps down the corridor. The kitchen door creaked; Thomas poured water from the jug. I propped myself up on an elbow, torn between staying in bed and getting up. I chose to rise, slipped on my robe, and padded barefoot across the cool floor.
The kitchen still smelled of the damp cloth Id used to wipe the counter the night before. Thomas stood by the window, shoulders slightly slumped, a glass clenched in his hand.
Cant sleep? I asked quietly.
He flinched just a fraction, not turning immediately.
Me neither I murmured.
The silence hung between us, thick as a knot; only a drop of water slid down the glass of the jug.
Sorry about tonight I raised my voice for nothing, I said. Youre tired I am too.
He turned slowly.
Im to blame It just feels odd now.
His voice was hoarse from disuse; he avoided my eyes.
We fell silent again, but the tension eased with those simple words. I sat opposite him, nudged a tin of tea toward hima habit that felt both automatic and comforting.
Youre an adult now, I said gently. I need to learn to let you go a bit further Im scared Ill miss something or do it wrong.
He looked at me more intently.
I dont get it yet, how to be here Back then it was: they saiddid it; at home its different. Here it feels like the rules have formed without me
I smiled faintly.
Were both relearning how to live together perhaps we should make some agreements?
He shrugged.
Could try.
Relief rose in me at his willingness. We agreed aloud on simple things: he would buy bread every other day, I would wash the dishes after dinner, and we would each have a quiet evening without the other asking where we were or what we were doing. Both of us knew it was only the first step, but the honesty felt vital.
I asked cautiously about his plans.
You wanted to look for work, didnt you? Do you still have your service card?
He nodded.
Yes. It was handed back right after demob; it sits in my rucksack with the discharge papers but where do I go from here?
I thought of the local Jobcentre. I told him briefly about free advice and programmes for veterans. He listened, wary.
Think its worth a visit? he asked.
Why not? If you like, I can go with you in the morning for company, or just help sort the paperwork.
He thought a long while, then said, Lets try together first.
The kitchen grew a shade warmerperhaps because Id turned off the light over the stove, leaving only the soft glow of the lamp, perhaps because for the first time in days we spoke calmly and truthfully. Outside, the neighbours lights twinkled in the darkness; some houses were still quiet in the late spring.
When our talk ended, we cleared the cups together and wiped the counter with a damp cloth.
Morning welcomed us with gentle light through heavy curtains; the city outside awoke slowly, childrens voices drifting from the schoolyard, birds chirping at the open kitchen window. This time I was not afraid to let the fresh air in. The chill of night had faded along with the anxiety of the past days.
I set the kettle on and retrieved a packet of biscuits for breakfast in place of the missing loaf. On the table I spread the documents Thomas would need: his service card in a red folder, his discharge paper, and his passport. I looked at them calmlynow they were symbols of a new chapter for my son, beginning here and now.
Thomas emerged from his room, still a little sleepy but without the earlier alienation. He sat opposite me, gave a brief smile.
Thank you, he said.
I replied simply, Shall we go together today?
He nodded. That yes sounded to me more important than any promise I had ever made.
