3. Emma
EMMA
By late afternoon the house was a bit too warm.
I propped open a window, letting in the Toronto humidity – a mix of sun-baked pavement and cut grass.
The street sounds followed: car doors, a bike bell, a neighbour calling for their dog.
I leaned on the windowsill for a minute, taking it all in, and then the reality of my new surroundings hit me.
Moving around was fine – unpacking not so much.
I dragged in a box labelled Books and Kitchen, an odd combination that made me chuckle.
There was apparently a stray oven mitt inside, three paperbacks, and a whisk with a handle that looked like a wilted daisy.
This box was the last one I’d packed in London, when I hadn’t cared anymore where things went.
I put the books on the coffee table and the whisk on the counter, and I told myself I was doing well. A start was, after all, a start.
I already liked this living room. The floorboards were honey-coloured and a little scuffed, soft under my bare feet.
The walls were newly painted in a white that was actually white and not a strange landlord beige.
On the windowsill, my snake plant and peace lily were looking slightly judging.
I thought of them as Doyle and Poe, though it felt a bit daft to say it out loud.
I moved them an inch to the left, then an inch back, before deciding to just leave them alone because I realised I was just procrastinating again.
The kitchen was a revelation: clean shelves and no ants.
This kitchen kind of invited me to maybe, just maybe, attempt some actual cooking.
Time would tell. I lined up plates, tucked mugs into place and even arranged the cutlery, a small act of order in the chaos.
I deserved a cup of tea after that. I lifted, slid, and cursed quietly until I found the box labelled Tea + Emergency Biscuits.
I stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, watching the steam rise from my mug. This was nice. The house started to feel a bit more like it was mine.
* * *
I checked the time and put the kettle back on.
Mum and Dad would be waiting, or rather, Mum would be early and Dad would want to finish reading his chapter first. I balanced my laptop on a stack of books and opened Zoom.
My face popped up, a bit pink from the lifting.
Good, that meant Mum wouldn’t fuss over me looking peaky.
My hair looked like it had a mind of its own though, so I tied it in a ponytail, then sent the link to our family chat and took another sip while the dial tone went.
As expected, Mum was the first one to appear and of course, at a funny angle, half ceiling, half fringe. “Em! Can you see me?”
“I can see the lampshade,” I said. “It looks very artistic. There you are. Hello.”
She tilted the phone to show her face. She was wearing one of her aprons. “Oh, love, look at you. You look… Canadian.”
“I don’t think it happens that fast.”
“It’s the light,” she said, as if she knew. “Where’s your dad? George! Come on! She’s on.”
Dad shuffled into the frame, wearing his reading glasses and a shirt he only wore to show that he hadn’t lost the patience to button up. “Hello, pet,” he said, and then, before anything else: “Have you eaten? Don’t say ‘biscuits’.”
“Tea and a biscuit,” I said, feeling a bit guilty. “But I will eat after we’ve chatted. I promise.”
“She’ll probably open a bag of crisps next,” Mum said, but she was smiling. “How was your first night?”
“Quiet,” I said. “I heard crickets, and something that might have been a raccoon with a strong opinion, but otherwise fine. I slept like a rock. And I didn’t fall off the air mattress, which was a bonus.”
“Boxes?” Dad asked, peering like he could count them through the screen.
“Many. And you know how much I hate unpacking.” I tipped the laptop to show them a glimpse of the living room and the stacks along the wall.
Dad finally sat down, resting his elbow on the table. “If you’re taking us on a tour, show me your kitchen. I want to see where this alleged cooking will happen.”
“I’ll have you know I cooked for myself yesterday,” I said. He raised an eyebrow that said beans on toast didn’t count. “Speaking of cooking, Mum, how’s the paella?”
She lit up like a small torch. “Ah! Well. After what could only be called months of experimentation…”
“It could be called that,” Dad cut in. “It could also be called ‘your father eating rice three times a week and pretending to identify subtle differences between brands of paprika.’”
“It’s smoked paprika, George,” Mum said, affectionate and exasperated at the same time. “And I nailed it yesterday. Nailed it. The rice was perfect. And the socarrat…”
“The what now?”
“The crispy bit at the bottom,” she said, pleased I’d asked. “I got it just right. Your father actually applauded.”
“I was clapping for the end of the paella odyssey,” Dad said. “I’m happy to report that your mother has reached perfection and can now move on.”
“To what?” I asked.
Mum looked thoughtfully at the ceiling, as if inspiration might be hiding up there by the lampshade. “I don’t know. I might go… Asian. I might do yoga or try origami. Something calm and precise, you know, like folding little flowers and cranes until they look just right.”
Dad groaned in an exaggerated way. “Brilliant. So the dining table will be buried under paper instead of rice.”
“You’ll live,” Mum told him, then squinted at the screen. “Em, are you eating enough? You look a bit peaky.”
Crap, I’d hoped my flushed cheeks from the unpacking would have reassured her. “It’s the laptop camera,” I said. “Everyone looks like that on Zoom. I promise I’m fine.”
“Good,” Dad said, then smiled. “We are proud of you, you know.”
“Oh, don’t,” I said, feeling the heat rise up my neck. “You’ll make me cry. Anyway, do you want the tour?”
“Yes!” Mum said, clapping.
I carefully picked up the laptop and started the tour in the living room.
“So this is the main part. The sofa will be here next week, but for now I have a borrowed armchair and a huge coffee table. Books will go there.” I pointed to a low shelf against the wall.
“I’m thinking about getting a rug to make it a bit more cosy; maybe I’ll add a lamp in that corner for the evenings.
I know I’m only going to be here for a year, but I still want the house to feel a bit homely. ”
“It’s bright,” Mum said. “You’ve made a good choice.”
“I like that window,” Dad said. “That will let you see the snow.”
I told them not to rush the snow and swung them around to the plants. “These are Doyle and…” I stopped myself. “The plants,” I said, and Mum’s eyes twinkled, and I knew she’d guessed I’d named them, like I always did.
Dad nosed closer to his camera as if that would bring him closer to mine. “Where will you write?”
“At the table,” I said, nudging to the small wooden one by the window. “Or the sofa. Or a coffee shop that I haven’t found yet. I plan to wander around a lot in the first few weeks, getting acquainted with the area, soaking up the atmosphere, and jotting down ideas.”
“Do you have any thoughts on the new book yet?” Dad asked, and I could hear the hope in it.
“I have no idea, which is fine. Don’t worry, I’ll get there.”
“I hate that bit,” Mum said, even though she didn’t write books. “The waiting.”
“I don’t mind it. This part is like stretching. It feels pointless until you start running and realise you didn’t pull something.”
“All right, poet,” Dad said. “And have you found a bookshop?”
“Oh yes,” I said, smiling. “I was just there yesterday. It’s a few streets away. Wooden floors, a table with staff picks and a cat that didn’t move when I said hello. I just know I’ll be going there a lot. I want to try a couple of Canadian authors.”
“Any recommendations?” Dad asked.
“I picked up a Margaret Atwood book I’d somehow missed and a book by Emily St John Mandel, which someone in the shop was raving about. I’ll report back. I also saw a shelf of local publications that made me want to touch the covers like a weirdo, so that’s promising.”
Dad looked satisfied. “As long as you’ve got a bookshop, you’ll be fine.”
“Bathroom now,” I said, and took them up the stairs. “Get ready.”
I pushed the door open with my foot and held the laptop so they could see it. “Look at this shower. It’s ridiculous.”
Mum whistled. “Oh, that’s lovely.”
“It’s like standing in a warm cloud,” I said, then winced at myself. “I know, that’s not a thing. But it’s really good. When winter comes, I might never leave the house. I’ll just stay here.”
Dad pointed. “Is that a proper extractor fan?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“And the tiles are sealed?”
“I assume so. If not, I’ll seal them. I’ve become very practical with all this moving around.”
“You always were,” Mum said softly.
I took them back to the living room. We talked about small things then.
About the London weather. About the neighbour’s new fence, which was apparently controversial.
And about the tomatoes in the garden that had finally decided to turn red.
Mum held up the phone so I could see them through the kitchen window.
“We’ll let you get back to your boxes,” Dad said, being practical again. “Eat something. Please. Biscuits and crisps don’t count. And call us if you can’t figure out how to use the thermostat.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you.”
When the call ended, the room was too quiet.
I stared at my faint reflection in the dark laptop screen.
We always said goodbye with a smile, it being difficult for me to admit that I got homesick more often than I cared to let on.
I told myself I liked the silence, and in that moment, I almost believed it.
I closed the laptop and reached for the next box. Inside, wedged between a cardigan and a pair of shoes, was my notebook. I sat on the edge of the coffee table and carefully wrote the date down, like that would make the move official.
“Toronto, first week: light, settling in, white walls, big shower. Bookshop with cat. Plants: Doyle, Poe. Mum’s paella triumph. Dad relieved. Weather like a held breath.”
I continued to unpack a few more boxes, focusing on arranging my things in a way that suited my new space, rather than how they were before.
I found the small lamp that would sit on the floor until there was a table, its warm light softening the empty corners.
I hung my heavy coat by the door, hoping I wouldn’t need it for weeks.
When I put the kettle back on, the sun was going down and the street outside sounded like people coming home.
I sliced a tomato, sprinkled it with salt, cut a piece of bread, and called it dinner.
I ate standing at the window watching the sky turning a shy pink at the edges.
The house felt expectant now, as if it were waiting to see what I would do next.
I didn’t know what the book would be yet.
I’d done this before. I’d fill my notebook with street names and overheard phrases.
But first I had to flatten boxes, take that ridiculous shower, and try to get comfortable on an air mattress.
I wrote one last line, a promise to myself to explore my new surroundings: “Tomorrow, walk.” Then I tucked it away like a small secret and listened to the new house make its night-time noises.