CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The sushi had arrived in its neat black trays, the rice still warm, the slices of tuna and salmon shining like lacquered silk beneath the kitchen light.
Kate poured the soy sauce into a small dish while her mother arranged the chopsticks.
The dogs hovered at their feet, alert to the sound of the containers opening, their tails tapping the floor like soft applause.
“Does this mean no more Sunday dinners?” her mother asked, once they had settled at the table.
Kate smiled. “Of course not.”
Her mother tilted her head. “Only, it feels like something’s ending.”
“It isn’t. But if you go back to the origins of the custom,” Kate said, “you and I started doing it because Dad was always working on Sundays. I don’t want to remember him like that— the man who was never there, who cared more about his stem cells than his family.”
Her mother’s chopsticks paused midway to her mouth. “That’s not the only way to remember him.”
“I know,” Kate said quietly. “It’s changing, you know? The way I think of him. The way I remember what happened. I feel as if I have a choice. I can decide what matters and what doesn’t.”
Her mother looked at her, the smallest crease of admiration at the edge of her smile. “So what does matter?”
“Life,” Kate said simply. “Life matters far more than death.”
The phone rang before her mother could answer. Kate glanced at the screen. “It’s Cheryl.” She stood up and took the call, listening, murmuring phrases of reassurance. No, he’s not here. I’m sure he’s fine. Try not to worry. I’ll tell him to call.
When she hung up, she sighed. “Cheryl’s in a state. She thinks Marcus is avoiding her.”
Her mother raised an eyebrow. “And is he?”
“Probably. The wedding’s three weeks away and they’re barely speaking. She’s spiralling, and he’s retreating. It’s like watching two people build a bonfire together and then complain about the smoke.”
Her mother smiled faintly. “Poetic. So what about you? You invited that bookstore boy, didn’t you?”
“As my plus-one, yes. Though at this rate there won’t be a wedding.”
Her mother’s tone was teasing. “That’s quite a step, inviting Mike.”
“It’s just a party,” Kate said, puzzled. “Mike likes parties.”
“Mm,” her mother murmured. “You keep telling yourself that, honey.”
The dogs chose that moment to bark, sharp and simultaneous, as if taking sides.
“See? Even the dogs disagree,” her mother said, laughing.
Kate threw a napkin at her, and they both laughed — not the brittle, cautious laughter that sometimes filled the gaps between them, but the kind that loosened something deep inside. They bickered gently about the dogs, the sushi, and the merits of wasabi versus pickled ginger.
And as the noise of their voices mingled with the sound of the rain, Kate realised — with the quiet astonishment of someone rediscovering a forgotten truth — that for the first time in a very long while, she was exactly where she wanted to be.