Chapter 4 Merry Ex-Mas, You Filthy Animal
Chapter four
Merry Ex-Mas, You Filthy Animal
Miranda
SJ is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bedroom floor, surrounded by what appears to be the entire contents of his toy chest, three drawers, and the deep void under his bed.
There’s a dinosaur in each hand, a book open on his lap, and a half-eaten banana on the duvet behind him, because obviously this is now a buffet.
He looks up. “I don’t know what to bring, Mum. What if I forget something important?”
“You won’t. We’ll make a list. Lists solve everything.”
He squints at me. “Even climate change?”
“Almost everything,” I amend, gently tugging a sock off the corner of his pillow. “Start with the things you use all the time. What couldn’t you live without?”
He considers this like a small, serious accountant preparing for an audit. “Blue Rexy. My Spider-Man mug. And the soft pillow, not the lumpy one.”
I nod, dutifully setting Blue Rexy in the ‘must-pack’ pile. “Excellent choices. Mug we’ll wrap in your jumper.”
He frowns at the rest of the room. “What about the pirate ship? It’s too big.”
“You’ll still come here, love. Dad’s keeping your room.”
“Yeah but... what if it feels different?”
It already does feel different.
Since I caught Sim-Sim with his trousers around his ankles we have been cohabitating. The atmosphere had been tense, even if we tried to not have any arguments in front of SJ. But still. It hasn’t been the same.
I sit next to SJ on the floor, knees cracking like bubble wrap. “It will feel different. But different doesn’t have to mean worse.”
He doesn’t reply. Just strokes the edge of his book absentmindedly.
I don’t know how to make this part easier. For him or for me. I don’t want to overpromise, or underplay it, or tell him it’ll all be fine when I don’t know what Tuesday looks like.
But I know this: I won’t let this break him. Break us.
“Dad’s still your dad,” I say gently. “And I’m still your mum. And wherever you are, we’ll make it feel like home. Deal?”
He nods. Still quiet. But he leans into me, head on my shoulder. Just for a second.
I breathe in the smell of banana, crayons, and the weird plasticky tang of that slime he’s obsessed with.
“Alright,” I say, patting his knee. “Let’s get strategic. We’ve got one box, one bag, and one slightly overstuffed tote bag. Choose wisely.”
He grins, and just like that, we’re moving again.
We pack in a rhythm. I fold clothes while he lines up action figures like they’re about to enter a very inefficient Noah’s Ark. He chooses his favourite books. I sneak in an extra pair of pyjamas because I know how this goes.
We argue about whether the giant stuffed sloth will fit—it will not. He insists on bringing a framed photo of the three of us from a holiday in Wales. Sim-Sim, still pretending, SJ grinning with ice cream all over his face, me looking... hopeful. I hesitate for half a breath, then nod.
“Let’s wrap it in bubble wrap. We’ll stick it on your shelf at the new place.”
“What’s it like?” he asks, not looking at me.
“It’s smaller,” I say, wrapping the photo in an old scarf and laying it gently in the box.
“And a bit less... fancy. No marble countertops or taps that cost more than a family car. But it’s in a proper village.
You know Little Hadlow from when we visited Amelia.
It’s cute. There is an actual butcher, and a post office that sells weird sweets from the eighties. ”
He looks vaguely interested but doesn’t bite.
“There’s loads of green space,” I add, nudging a pair of pyjamas into the corner. “You can run around without someone reporting us to the building management. Amelia and Ben live five minutes away. And you’ll get to play with Smutty.”
That gets a reaction. He grins. “He’s so grumpy.”
“Exactly. Like a tiny, disapproving feline overlord. He’ll love you. Eventually. Probably. If you bring snacks.”
SJ pulls at a loose thread on his jumper, still frowning a bit.
“All my friends are here.”
I sit back on my heels and nod. “I know. And you’ll still see them. You’re still going to the same school, remember?”
“But—”
“Even if it means your dad has to hire a driver,” I say, trying not to sound smug about it. “Which he has. Full suit, little hat. You’ll be the most chauffeured eight-year-old this side of the royal family.”
He snorts. “That’s weird.”
“It’s posh. And it means you’re not stuck on a train. You’ll see your dad on weekends and you’ll spend a week a month at your dad’s as well.”
He thinks about that, chewing the inside of his cheek.
“Do I get a key to the new place?”
“Of course you do.”
“Can I make a den?”
“Only if I’m allowed in.”
“You’re not,” he says, deadpan.
I press a hand to my heart. “Betrayed. Day one.”
He grins, but it’s lopsided, like he’s still trying to piece all this together.
I know the feeling.
We sit in the half-packed room for a moment, surrounded by soft toys and a future we’re still packing up. The light’s gone flat outside, grey and dull. One of his T-shirts drapes off the side of the bed like it’s thinking about jumping.
I reach over and brush a bit of fluff from his hair. “It’ll be alright, you know.”
He shrugs. “I know. Just... weird.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “Weird’s about right.”
There’s a knock on the doorframe.
Sim-Sim has got that careful look on, the one he wears in meetings when he’s trying not to spook a client.
“Miranda,” he says, voice low. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
I nod. I am done talking really, but we need to find a way to be civil to each other, even if it is just for SJ. So I follow Sim-Sim to the kitchen.
He doesn’t rush. Just stands near the table, hands in his pockets like they might stop him saying something stupid. For a second, it’s so quiet I can hear SJ humming faintly from the bedroom.
“I just...” He takes a breath. “Are you really sure?”
I don’t answer immediately.
He looks tired. Not the performative kind, not a subtle “feel sorry for me” tactic. Just... worn. Like the last few weeks have chipped at him in ways he didn’t see coming.
“As sure as I was when I signed the divorce papers,” I say eventually.
He nods, once. Looks down.
“I swear to you, it was a one-off. That girl—it wasn’t anything. It wasn’t even someone, not really. Just a mistake.”
I stay still.
“I never cheated before,” he goes on. “Not once. I know I messed up, but... it’s not who I am. I was stupid. And I was tired. And you were gone. And I know none of that makes it better, but I still… I love you.”
The words land heavily. Not sharp. Not dramatic. Just plain. Like he really believes they still mean something.
I glance away, just for a second.
The weight of it hits all at once… the years, the history, the life we built. The dinners, the birthdays, the endless shared decisions that shaped everything.
I don’t reply because I don’t know what to say.
He takes a step closer. Careful. Like I’m a wounded animal and he’s hoping not to get bitten.
“You don’t have to go,” he says. “Not yet. You could stay. Just for a bit. In the guest room, like before. And we could... feel our way back. Slowly. No pressure. Just space. Time.”
I close my eyes.
There’s a version of me that wants to say yes. The part that still remembers the good days. The part that wants to keep SJ’s world whole. The part that’s tired of being strong all the bloody time.
But I also remember standing in that bedroom and the sound he made when he called her baby girl.
When I open my eyes, he’s watching me like he’s holding his breath.
“I can’t,” I say softly. “I can’t try to find my way back to something I haven’t forgiven.”
He flinches, barely. But I see it.
“I don’t know… I might eventually forgive you,” I add. “But I haven’t yet. And I won’t pretend I have just to make it easier.”
He nods. Slowly.
“Alright,” he says. “I just—I had to try.”
I look at him for a long moment. “I know.”
We stand in silence for a beat too long.
Then I turn to go.
Because I’m still not entirely sure what comes next.
But I know it isn’t this.