Lisa （age 25）
I rinse Mum’s plastic pill organizer, scrubbing the Monday slot like its cleanliness will influence her ability to live until
then. The doctors say we have seventy-two hours at best. If only Griff had been a match. I take a swig of pale ale, trying
to drown out the grief.
The front door creaks, and I turn around, eyes pricking with anticipated tears. “Tom, is that you?” He said he’d drop by with
chocolate ice cream and a hug; I don’t know which I need more.
But the footsteps are too slow, too measured.
“Griff?!” I gasp, setting eyes on my brother, who was meant to be on his way to the airport. “You’ve come back?” Dare I hope
he’s changed his mind and isn’t leaving me to deal with Mum’s death alone?
“I left something behind.” He stands in the doorway, black jeans and charcoal jumper neat and deliberate as always.
I long for him to say it’s me—that he’s forgotten me all his life and now, finally, he’s going to stay. That he wants to stay for my sake. Some stupid part of me still thinks if I say the right thing, act the right way, he’ll change his mind.
That he’ll look at me and see someone worth hanging around for.
But he heads straight past me for the tallboy, pulling a box from the top drawer.
“So, you’re still going then, to Paris?” I ask, my fingers white-knuckled around the sponge.
He nods without looking at me. “Flight’s in a few hours.”
“You were supposed to visit her again.”
“I did. Yesterday.”
“She’s still alive, Griff.”
“I said goodbye.” His voice catches. He reaches for his case of spare chef knives, but his hand falters at the shelf.
My sponge hits the sink with a wet slap. Of course. That’s all he came for: his old knives. Not Mum. Not me.
“Wow. You’re really something, you know that?” I say. “You came all the way back from the airport . . . for knives. You may
as well stick one in my back on the way out.”
“Mum gave them to me. I wanted to bring them for the new job.”
“Of course you do.”
He looks at me then. Finally. “She told me to go. You know she did.”
“Yeah. Because she didn’t want you to feel guilty. Because that’s what she always did—let you off the hook. Just like when
my dad left.”
He averts his gaze again. “You know he left for work.”
“So you and Mum keep saying.”
“You think this is easy for me?” His voice is harsh but wobbly.
“I think you’re good at disappearing when it’s convenient.”
He sets the knives on the counter, but his hand stays on the bundle. Like letting them go might make him accountable. “I don’t
do well with endings,” he says, staring at my bottle of beer, eyes wide.
“No one does,” I snap. “You think I want to watch her slip away? But I’m doing it. And you—” My voice cracks. “You’re so far
gone I can’t even see you anymore, even when you’re right in front of me.”
“You’ll be better at this than I ever could be,” he says, not making eye contact.
“I don’t want to be better. I just don’t want to do it alone.”
Silence settles between us. The kind that stretches years wide.
“I need to get back to—” he begins.
“Back where? What urgent booking are you missing, Griff? What parfait needs you more than I do?”
He turns away, his voice tight. “I’m sorry. I’ll call you from Paris.”
“Don’t bother.”
He picks up his bag. “Tell Mum that—”
“You tell her yourself,” I say. “She’s still breathing.”
He opens the door. Pauses. Looks back once. Then vanishes.