Page 124 of The Home Grown
“I’m home.”
Ah, shit.
Dad calls from the front door, announcing his arrival, slamming it closed behind him before dropping his keys into the bowl on the sideboard. His routine plays out in my head.He’ll use the bathroom, then there’ll be a moment of silence as he takes his shoes off, followed by his belt.
Mam finishes making the tea, then turns to me, her mouth in a straight line as she watches me—scoffing down the sandwich—as we wait for my dad.
Though, I’m not sure what I’m waiting for because my dad’s soft as shit. He’s told none of us kids off once—Mam is the authoritarian. She can rule with a single look.
“You can tell him,” she says.
And I face no choice but to nod, swallowing my pride along with a chunk of bread. Because even though Dad is laid back and generally carefree, I’m not overly excited about breaking the news to him.
The silence stretches out before the kitchen door finally opens. Dad enters, stopping next to Mam and planting a kiss on her cheek before reaching for his mug.
“Everyone okay?” he says.
But Mam’s silence tells him what he needs to know—everything is far from okay in her world.
“Didn’t realise you were visiting today, Mike?”
He takes a sip of his tea.
“Yeah, I’ve got the social thing with Team GB tomorrow, so I figured?—”
“Go on. Tell him,” Mam says sharply, cutting me off.
“Tell me what?” Dad says, looking between us.
“Why don’t you askyourson?”
I wince. This is how I know things are bad. I’m not ‘her son’ in this moment, or the collective ‘our son’, I’mhisson. Dad’s son. Dad’s responsibility.
He realises this too. The last time I recall her throwing that out into the world was when I broke a £200 stick the day after I got it. Weeks of begging, that took me. Weeks of trying to justify my needing it, for it to be gone a day later. Snapped in half after a failed one-timer. Needless to say, I didn’t have one that fancy again—not until I started playing pro.
“What’s goingon?” Dad says, looking right at me.
I swallow hard and brace myself to talk—even getting as far as opening my mouth, but Mam cuts across me again, turning to my dad and sticking a hand on her hip.
“He’s only gone and told his new Coach he’s married, Tony. Married. Apparently—Coach Harris from the Team GB squad implied being settled in a relationship would be better for Michael’s image, you know, grounded and all that—so bright spark here casually dropped the mention of a wife into the conversation and now?—”
“Married?” Dad says, contorting his face as if he’s trying to work out what the word means. “You’re joking?”
And if I’m not mistaken, I think there’s a hint of a smile.
He looks around the room and I shrug, not sure what else I can offer.
“I wish I was joking,” Mam says. “And now he’s convinced some poor girl to go along with it.”
Dad laughs. His deep chuckle fills the room, only to halt at the sight of my mother’s unamused face.
“What? Who?” he says, straightening up.
I open my mouth to answer when the doorbell rings and Mam looks at me, absolute rage in her eyes.
“Oh, my god,” she says. “I’ve got a home appointment, so Tony, I’ll leave you to deal with this.”
She dips out of the kitchen, leaving Dad and me alone.
