Chapter 2
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That appointment replayed in my head all the way home.
With each rock and sway of the train car, Mum’s stony face etched deeper into the grooves of my brain—and the moment her mask cracked, and her mouth twisted, and tears flooded her eyes…
That haunted me through the bus ride from the train station, then the five-minute walk in the rain back to the townhouse.
By the time I got through the door, I was drenched head-to-toe.
If I had emotional scraps to spare, I might have been glad for the drizzle on my face, hiding the tears that glisten there.
A camouflage that saved me from my housemates noticing that I was crying on and off for the past hour and a bit.
I wore that camouflage through the open glass doors—and my bloodshot eyes steeled when they landed on Sarah and her always-fucking-here boyfriend. Both sucked into the couch, surrounded by crisp packets and bowls of half-eaten ramen.
My lip tugged up at the sight of them, but there wasn’t enough strength in me to commit to the sneer.
They didn’t notice me as I dragged myself around the back of the couch and to the second set of double doors. They didn’t so much as look at me—too deep in Crash Bandicoot.
That suited me fine.
I shut the doors to the kitchen behind me, and all I saw was the white walls of the hospital, the smell of cleaning products and plastic, and then the quiet ride on the elevator, then around the maze of corridors to the oncology offices—
I blinked, and there I was, sitting in that consulting room, my mum in the chair next to me, her fingers twisting the strap of her bag.
The doctor had spoken gently, too gently, almost patronising, and I bristled against it right away.
It was a mask. A practiced tone he’d crafted throughout his career.
‘Liver cancer.’
‘Stage four.’
‘It has spread…’
The words sounded foreign and smooth.
I stared at the red bumps on his chin, those nasty ingrowns he hadn’t gotten to yet, and I wondered if he thought he’d made good work of his grooming that morning.
Is he even aware of those gross spots burrowed into his skin?
Then darkness coiled in me.
Had he shaved in the mirror, rinsed off his razor in the basin, laughed at something his wife said in the other room? Had he worn his plain gold wedding band then, as he did in the appointment, while he told my mum she was going to die?
Mum must have known.
She was a strong woman—but I knew something was off when she asked me to come to the appointment with her.
Last time I was at a doctor’s appointment with my mum, I was probably twelve or thirteen years old and suspended from school for some reason or another.
Sometimes it was telling the teachers to get their coffee breath out of my face or throat-punching another student.
I wanted to do both things to this specialist, his act that was I’m sure was supposed to be supportive or at least empathetic, but ended up being so condescending that for the whole appointment, I was tempted to lunge across the desk—
But then Mum broke down.
And I took her hand.
I didn’t cry then, not in the office. Those tears came later on the bus home.
I think, looking back, I was shellshocked.
That was morning.
And I got home just past noon.
That meant everyone was awake and home.
The homeshare was large enough for one tenant to a room, and there were six bedrooms across three floors. One of those old, narrow townhouses too far outside of London to be an easy commute, but as close as I could get within my budget.
Now, everything changed.
One morning, one appointment—
And I was certain I would soon be leaving this place I’ve called home this past year.
I stopped off in the downstairs bathroom, crammed and filthy with makeup smudges all over the sink, and a bin full of tampons and pads that I could smell oxidising.
I rinsed my face clean of tears and raindrops, and as I patted the handtowels from the fresh basket along my hollow cheeks, I only saw my mum in the mirror, looking back at me with wet, blue eyes.
She wanted to be alone.
Needed to rest, she told me.
And so I watched her step on the south-bound train—and the doors shut.
Maybe I should have gone with her, fought harder, but that look in her eyes, sharp blue just like mine, was exhausted. More than physically, more than mentally—she was spiritually done.
So I had to let her go.
I wished I didn’t.
The house was full, but more than that, it had that Saturday vibe. Music wisped out of open doors, it followed me through the hallway, then into the kitchen, where sticky jugs of cocktails were strewn about the dining table.
I tossed my bag onto the counter.
And for a long while, I stared at the dishes piled in the sink.
I should have done something.
Called someone.
Eaten something.
But I just stood there.
Time must have ticked by faster than I realised, but I was pulled out of my trance by the thundering rainfall outside, and when I looked at the window, the sun had shifted west to hide behind stormy clouds.
I considered it for a moment before reaching for my bag. From the side pocket, I lured out my cell, then moved for the double windows. I tugged them open, feeling the hit of mist and cold strike me, before stepping onto the narrow balcony.
Balcony was probably a stretch of a word.
The ledge only extended about a foot from the window and was barred by an iron fence. Maybe to stop people from jumping.
I leaned against the fence and, flicking through my contact list, let the rain batter me.
The pad of my thumb hovered over a contact I hadn’t spoken to in months.
‘DAD’.
I hesitated.
It wasn’t as easy as calling him—and talking.
Mel could be the one to pick up, his wife, or Liam, my half-brother I don’t give a shit about.
Last time I saw his face was in the Christmas card a couple of months earlier. Shiny faces beamed at me from that card, and of course it didn’t include me.
But right then, in that moment, who else could I call?
My grandparents were gone, Mum had no siblings, just me and my dad, who fucked off to Canada when shit got too real for him, except he was happy to stay there and build a whole new family.
And still, my thumb tapped on the button—
The phone rang twice.
“Tesni?”
The faint sound of cartoons in the background—some bright, tinny theme song about superheroes—disturbed the call.
I didn’t know how to start, so I just said the part most people would need warming up for, the part that would make most uncomfortable.
“Mum’s sick.”
The silence that followed was heavy before, in Welsh, he asked, “How sick?”
“Cancer.” My own voice was an echo. “No treatment—just hospice.”
The background noise of cartoons didn’t fade. He didn’t move rooms, didn’t turn down the volume.
“I don’t know what to do,” I confessed, and I hated how small I sounded, how childlike.
The cartoons kept on going.
The sound was churning something in me, something dark, and I itched to reach through the phone and claw at every single one of them, Mel, my dad, Liam.
“I’ll send you money.” His offer numbed me. “For… Uh, arrangements. If you want to look into hospice options too, that—”
A loud crash drowned out the cartoons.
It was fast followed by a child’s scream.
“Liam, don’t touch it! Liam, buddy—I said no!” He huffed, heavy, then called down the phone at me, “I’ve gotta go, I’ll call you back.”
He wouldn’t.
I knew it before the line went dead.
But if I went to the bank at the end of the week and checked my account, I didn’t doubt there would be a new lump sun boosting my numbers.
I stared down at the reflective black screen.
My own face looked back at me, warped and empty. I flipped it shut with a snap, then tucked it into my back pocket.
Then I’d heard the front door open.
Footsteps.
Murmurs.
Then, louder, laughter.
My face twisted and I looked over my shoulder.
Through the open window, I watched the kitchen door jut open.
Bee, one of the housemates here, carted in bags of fresh groceries, and had her head bent at an uncomfortable angle as talked down the phone.
She heaved the bags onto the kitchen counter, her mousy hair glistening under the harsh ceiling light, blonde highlights glittering.
The greyish green of her eyes shifted as she considered my bag—and it was recognisable with the chain straps.
Her eyes lit up when she spotted me.
She peeled her cell out from between her shoulder and ear, righted herself, then flipped the pink Motorola shut.
I turned back to watch the rain.
That didn’t stop her.
Never did.
If I was bad at reading social cues, then I was a savant next to her. I turn away, she still follows; I roll my eyes, she smiles brighter.
She poked her head around the window.
“You’ll catch a cold out here,” she said, but there was no chiding in it, no malice. Her smile was too bright, too easy.
I threw her a dull look.
Her coat was speckled with raindrops along the shoulders.
As though I didn’t just reject her in a glance alone, she leaned against the window. “Are you joining us out back?”
I blinked at her. “What?”
“Drinks in the garden.”
I could just picture it, all the housemates that weren’t rotting away on the couch, huddled under the pergola, avoiding the rain, and sharing sticky, sugary cocktails.
My mouth puckered. “Pass.”
Bee didn’t give up. “You can invite Ben.”
My frown tugged. Ben, my boyfriend, if that was what he wanted to call himself.
I hardly knew what the word meant other than we sometimes spent nights together, the occasional day, sent dry texts back and forth, like good morning and goodnight, and fucked.
Guess all that was supposed to mean something.
It always felt hollow.
I never lied to myself about him, or any boyfriend I’ve ever had.
Ben just didn’t really matter to me.
Now, he felt even further away, a memory of a person, not someone I could have called now.
I pushed from the window and slinked by Bee. She backstepped to make the space for me, and her greyish eyes followed me out of the kitchen.
I went upstairs to my room, shut the door, and dropped onto the bed. And I stared at the popcorn-textured paint on the ceiling.
I was certain only ten minutes or so passed before there was a soft knock on the door.
“Fuck off.” My answer came unenthused, without vigour, but I meant it all the same.
Still, the door creaked open, just a crack, and I threw an exhausted look at the face in the threshold.
Bee shimmied inside, holding one mug and one tumbler. “Wasn’t sure what you drank, so…” She set them both down on my nightstand. “Tea or tequila.”
I made a face at her. “Tequila?”
She lifted one shoulder, smiling.
The look I spare her is harsh, all curled lips and sharp-as-diamond eyes.
Unwavering, Bee handed me the tequila. “Definitely this one.”
“Can you just fuck off?”
My retort didn’t so much as flinch her.
Her smile remained soft as she sank onto the crates of records pushed up against the wall.
Something about Bee I learned in that moment, an unwanted intruder into my bedroom, is that she doesn’t ask questions when I’m unwilling to answer them.
She doesn’t fill the air with chatter, like most people do.
She just… waited.
Waited until long after the rain softened into a drizzle, and the noise from outside in the garden started to rise with cheers and laughter, and the hum of the TV downstairs became a constant background sound to my stunned misery.
That is where I was.
Somewhere between the shock and the pain that a part of me refused to let in.
Mum…
My mum…
“My mum has cancer.”
The admission escaped from my lips in a breath, a murmur, and yet I felt nothing about it releasing, no shame, not even relief.
I merely spoke true words.
I didn’t look at her, parked on the crates.
I only heard the records shifting for a beat before the touch of her hand came—and she threaded her fingers through mine.
Bee didn’t tell me she was sorry.
Didn’t ask about treatments or give me her condolences.
She said nothing at all, and just sat there…
Holding my hand.