Sparks Fly Back Home

Chapter 1

‘Lia, time to rise and shine, sweetheart,’ my mum practically sings.

I groan, burrowing deeper beneath the duvet.

It feels blissfully heavier, keeping out the autumn chill that seems to be creeping in.

It’s the start of September – I think the new school year, and my birthday, always make September feel like a new beginning.

It’s a transitional phase, watching the leaves fall from the trees, the colour palette of life shifting into something beautiful… I wish I could do the same.

‘What was that?’ she asks. ‘Did you say something?’

I didn’t say anything – I simply… expelled a sound that showed her exactly how I feel about getting up today. I can’t imagine I’ll feel much different tomorrow either.

‘Do I have to get up, Mum?’ I mumble, pulling my pillow over my head in an attempt to either drown out her piercing morning wake-up call or, if I’m lucky, smother myself into peaceful unconsciousness.

‘Come on, darling,’ my mum insists. ‘I’ve got all your favourite cereals. I thought you could mix them together, to cheer yourself up.’

‘Mum,’ I practically whine. ‘I’m too old for that.’

Sadly my pillow is doing nothing to either block out her voice or smother me back to sleep. I hear my door open. My mum, obviously sick of screaming at me from behind my closed bedroom door, marches inside and gasps dramatically. Wonderful – she’s seen what a mess my bedroom is.

‘I really wish you would keep your room tidy,’ she complains.

Oh, as if I don’t have enough going on at the moment. Now I’m getting unsolicited feedback on every little thing.

‘Your brother keeps his room neat and he’s already up and ready for school.

Now, come on,’ she demands, yanking the duvet clean off me before I can protest. Cold air rushes in instantly, raising goosebumps along my arms. It’s not even that cold – not yet.

It’s just a shock. It’s all such a shock. ‘Your cereal is going cold.’

Oh, lovely, a joke – and one of Dad’s, no less.

I reluctantly remove the pillow from my face and lie flat on my back, only to be temporarily blinded by the sunlight as Mum whips open my curtains.

Pale early autumn sunlight pours in – that softer golden kind that makes everything look deceptively warm and peaceful.

The best part of the season, where you have days that make you want to be cosy, dotted with the last hurrah of summer.

Suddenly the warmer, sunnier days feel precious.

Winter feels close, and like it’s going to be long.

Long, dark and cold. Gosh, I really am on a gloomy one today.

And my mum’s usual ray of sunshine is only making me feel even more like I’m in the shadows.

This is my mum though, subtle as a hurricane, which is why me, my brother and my dad all call her Hurricane Helen.

‘Mum,’ I say, practically whining the word out. ‘I’m too old to be mixing kids’ cereals together.’

‘Oh, come on, you’re never too old for—’

‘Mum!’ I interrupt her, sitting up straight in bed. ‘I’m twenty-nine years old.’

My mother stares at me for a moment, most likely taking in the sight of her adult daughter in her teenage bedroom after arriving home last night with her tail between her legs.

I’m actually turning thirty soon, but you better believe I’ll be saying twenty-nine for as long as I possibly can.

‘Ah, but you’re still my baby,’ she replies.

She laughs – probably at my bird’s nest hair. My mum’s hair looks salon-perfect, as usual. When I was a kid I used to think she was visited in the night by fairies, who worked on her hair while she was sleeping, because I could never quite get over how sleek it was.

I didn’t inherit my mum’s silky smooth, obedient, always perfect brown hair, nor did I inherit my dad’s bald head, so I have to assume he was blonde, back when he was a kid – that or my mum has a lot of explaining to do. It’s hard to imagine my dad as a kid – as anything but a dad, really.

My hair only needs to hear that there is a chance of rain for it to start frizzing, and you could be forgiven for thinking that I sleep on a balloon, instead of a pillow.

‘After what you’ve been through, a bit of cereal will do you good,’ she says – although it absolutely won’t. ‘Come down.’

My mum tosses my dressing gown at me before heading back downstairs – without closing my bedroom door behind her, of course.

I sit here for a moment, letting the quiet settle.

The hurricane has passed… for now. The house already feels awake in that way it always used to – the central heating, someone moving about downstairs, the distant clink of bowls and spoons from the breakfast table.

It’s all so familiar, like I’ve travelled back in time.

As I drag myself out of bed I can’t help but notice that she tidied up a little while she was in here, but my bedroom is still a tip.

When I came home last night, I dumped everything on the floor – I was in no mood for putting away my things; that would be way too much like moving back in and I’m not ready for that yet.

I am moving back in though; whether I like it or not, it’s happening.

Still, I deserve a little denial, so all my worldly goods are scattered across the floor, blending in seamlessly amongst all the teenage crap I left here before I went to uni – which feels like a million years ago.

I was just about to make a comment about how weird it is that Mum hasn’t changed my room into something useful, almost like she has never quite accepted the fact that I’m not coming home.

However, we’re beyond irony at this point, given that I’m, well, back home.

I suppose I should count myself lucky that she has kept it, although I would much rather be sleeping in a lovely guest room than a room that has remained largely untouched since I was a teenager (and even when I was a teenager, I wasn’t exactly big on updating it as I got older).

As if things weren’t bad enough, now I’ve got to go downstairs so my mother can force-feed me Coco Pops.

I know she means well, and she’s just worried about me, but I kept hearing her last night, popping her head inside the doorway, to make sure I was okay. What I really need right now is privacy but, let’s be honest, I’ve come to the wrong place for that.

Ah well, time to put on a brave face – and the bright pink dressing gown that my gran bought me for Christmas when I was seventeen – and head downstairs so that my mum can start feeding me better.

Somehow, I don’t think there’s going to be enough food in the fridge.