The Knock

“Hope knocks softly. But dread—it uses the door like a drum.”

As I bustled about the kitchen, my mind churning with worry, Noah's voice cut through my thoughts.

“Have you heard from Paul yet?” he asked, his brow furrowed with concern. “I just tried to call him but it's gone straight to his voicemail.”

I froze for a beat, the spatula in my hand hovering over the pan as his words sank in. That familiar thrum of anxiety surged up my spine. The smell of burnt toast tickled my nose, sharp and accusatory.

I shook my head, my lips pressed into a tight line.

“No,” I said bluntly, my frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “Claire is still pestering me about him. You know how she gets. Keeps that annoying finger of hers on the dial button. It's no wonder he's turned his phone off.”

I tried to sound dismissive, but the quiver in my chest betrayed me. My hands were already moving again — too fast, too clumsy — banging the drawer shut as I searched for a clean tea towel that wasn’t damp or stained.

Noah's eyebrows raised, a silent question in his eyes.

“Is he not in Broken Hill with her?” he asked, his tone laced with surprise.

“Apparently not,” I replied, my voice clipped and sharp. I could feel the tension coiling in my shoulders, the weight of my worry pressing down on me like a physical burden.

I turned slightly so he wouldn’t see the way my face tightened. It wasn’t just worry anymore. It was something deeper — a slow, gnawing dread I couldn’t name. The kitchen, usually my place of rhythm and refuge, felt claustrophobic. Too bright. Too loud. The hum of the fridge, the clang of a spoon against the ceramic bowl — it all felt like a ticking clock counting down to something I couldn’t see.

Noah's intrigue was palpable, his gaze urging me to continue, to spill the rest of the beans. His eyes held that quiet persistence — not demanding, but expectant — the kind that could wear me down if I lingered too long in silence. But before I could utter another word, Charles's voice rang out through the house.

“I'm off!” he called, his declaration punctuated by the slamming of the front door.

The sound jolted me — sharp and final. I frowned, my annoyance momentarily redirected, the muscles in my neck tightening instinctively.

“I'm surprised he doesn't wake the whole street up every morning. He's like a bull in a china shop, that one.”

It was true, of course. Charles never left quietly — not emotionally, not physically. Even the air seemed to shudder after him.

A playful smile tugged at the corner of Noah's mouth, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. I could see it — that familiar glint, the way his lips twitched despite himself. I knew that he found my melodramatics entertaining, that he often struggled to hide his mirth in the face of my stress.

But I was in no mood for levity, not this morning. Not with Paul missing in action and Claire sniffing around like a bloodhound. My mind was consumed with thoughts of our wayward son, and the brittle edge of worry scraped at the back of my throat.

Choosing to ignore Noah's amusement, I resumed my explanation of Paul's whereabouts.

“According to Luke, Paul's gone to stay with him in Hobart for a few days.”

Noah's surprise was evident, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. He blinked once, as though trying to make sense of it.

“I'm surprised he hasn't told us about it,” he said, his tone tinged with disappointment.

I could feel my mouth tightening into my infamous you-should-know-better pout, the expression rising unbidden to my face — one I knew annoyed him as much as it amused.

“I'm sure there's plenty that son of yours doesn't tell you,” I said, my voice sharp and accusatory.

I watched as Noah's face fell, a twang of disappointment hitting him square in the gut. The shift was subtle — the way his shoulders lowered slightly, how the corner of his mouth turned down — but I saw it. I felt it.

I knew that he considered his relationship with Paul to be strong, that he believed their line of communication was open and honest. But I had my doubts, doubts that lodged themselves deep in my chest and refused to budge. My maternal instincts told me there was more going on than either of them cared to admit.

And instincts, I’d learned, were rarely wrong.

“Any idea when—” Noah began, but I cut him off, my patience wearing thin.

“Actually, Luke said he was going to get Paul to call me, and that was more than a few days ago. I even spoke with the police and she hasn't called me back either,” I huffed, my frustration at the world's poor communication reaching a boiling point.

The words spilled out more sharply than I'd intended, but I didn’t try to soften them. I was tired — bone-tired — of waiting, of guessing, of piecing together scraps of half-truths from one child while another went silent. The noise in my mind was constant now, an endless clatter of worry and resentment, and every unanswered message, every dead-end voicemail, only made it worse.

Noah's eyes widened, his concern for Paul's situation and the welfare of his grandchildren rising sharply.

“The police?” he asked, incredulity colouring his tone. “Why didn't you tell me sooner?”

I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, a mix of shame and defensiveness. The kind of flush that made my skin prickle, made me feel exposed.

“I was going to, but then with the whole New Jerusalem thing, I guess it slipped my mind,” I answered, my voice trailing off as I realised the gravity of my oversight.

There it was — laid bare between us. My failure to tell him. Not out of malice or secrecy, but sheer overwhelm. The truth was I could barely keep track of anything these days. My thoughts felt like loose threads in a basket I was no longer strong enough to carry.

Noah's mouth opened, but no words came out. I could see the gears turning in his head, the realisation that my lapse in communication was understandable given the magnitude of the recent revelations.

He didn’t need to speak. His silence held no accusation — only a dawning awareness that even I, the family’s unwavering fulcrum, had limits.

But before either of us could say another word, a sharp knock at the front door caught our attention.

The sound rang out suddenly, urgent and precise — not the lazy tap of a neighbour dropping in, nor the chaotic thud of Charles with his usual forgetfulness. It struck the morning stillness like a warning bell, slicing through the moment with unwelcome insistence.

Noah pulled his dressing gown tighter around himself, his displeasure at having to answer the door in such a state clear on his face. The corners of his mouth pulled down, and he gave a little huff as he straightened his shoulders with reluctant dignity.

“I'll get it,” he said, his tone resigned as he made his way down the hallway.

I watched him go, the fabric of his dressing gown flaring slightly with each step. There was something about the sight that stirred a pang in me — a reminder that even he, steady and quiet, was just as frayed as I was this week.

“It's probably Charles forgetting something,” I called after him, my mind already jumping to conclusions.

It was easier to assume that. Easier than entertaining any other possibility.

And I turned my attention back to breakfast.

The eggs were beginning to blacken around the edges — too long on the heat. I scraped them absent-mindedly into the bin, the scrape of metal against the pan oddly jarring. The knock lingered in my ears like an echo, unwelcome and uninvited.

After several moments passed, “Is it Charles?” I called out from the kitchen, hoping that it would reach the front door.

“No, it’s Luke,” Noah called back the reply.

“Luke!” I cried out, my voice echoing through the house as I ran down the passageway.

My feet barely touched the floor as I moved, the world narrowing to that single, blessed name. The moment I saw him standing there — tall, familiar, slightly older around the eyes — I threw my arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. The warmth of his body against mine was startling, grounding, like coming in from a cold wind.

He smelt faintly of eucalyptus and the dry heat of travel — foreign, but still my boy. My arms tightened, unwilling to let go just yet. It was only when he shifted awkwardly that I loosened my grip.

But even as I revelled in the joy of our reunion, a nagging question pushed its way to the forefront of my mind, sharp and insistent.

“Where's your brother?” I asked, my tone a mix of concern and curiosity.

Luke pulled himself free from my grasp, his expression unreadable. His eyes flicked past me, landing squarely on Noah.

“Ah,” he said, his gaze shifting. “I need to talk to you in private.”

I blinked, confused, then felt the sting rise in my chest — quick, hot, humiliating.

I could feel my hackles rising, a sense of indignation and hurt washing over me in equal measure. How could Luke come all this way, after so much time apart, only to shut me out again?

“Anything you need to say to your father, you can say to me too,” I scoffed, my voice loud and sharp. “You know we have no secrets in this family.”

An odd gurgle escaped Noah's lips, a sound I knew all too well — part cough, part laugh, part panic. He was caught off guard by my blatant mistruth. And well he should be.

The lie hung in the air like steam from a kettle, obvious and rising.

“Come into the study with me,” Noah told Luke, his eyes firing me a signal to back off. A silent plea, threaded with the kind of patience I no longer had.

But I was in no mood to be placated. My maternal instincts were flaring, raw and insistent. Whatever it was, I needed to know. I deserved to know.

Huffing loudly, I tromped along the hallway, my footsteps heavy with the weight of my disappointment.

“So much for a happy return,” I muttered to myself, the words bitter on my tongue as I turned into the kitchen.

My hands shook slightly as I reached for the kettle, needing the ritual of tea, of boiling water and measured spoons, to keep myself from spiralling further.

What could Luke possibly have to say to Noah that he couldn't share with me?

I rinsed a plate that wasn't truly dirty, just to keep my hands moving, but the question throbbed behind my eyes like a pressure headache. Was it about Paul? About our family? Something from Hobart I didn’t yet know? The uncertainty gnawed at me, a constant companion that refused to be silenced — sharper now, more insistent than ever.

I could feel the tension coiling in my shoulders, the same dull knots of worry and frustration that had become all too familiar of late. They tightened with each passing moment, each clink of cutlery, each muffled voice from the other end of the house that I strained to interpret.

I wanted to march down the hallway, to burst into the study and demand to be included — to remind them that I was not some fragile ornament to be kept at a distance. I was the one who held this family together, day in and day out. Surely I deserved to know what was going on.

But something held me back — a small voice of reason, quiet but firm, whispering at the back of my mind. Perhaps there was a reason for Luke's secrecy. Perhaps there was pain he needed to untangle first, before it could be spoken aloud. A purpose behind the privacy.

And perhaps, in time, he would share with me what he had shared with Noah.

The thought didn’t comfort me — not really — but it gave me just enough stillness to stay where I was.

The bond between mother and son, I reminded myself, was stronger than any temporary distance or disagreement. It had to be.

And so, with a heavy heart and a mind full of questions, I forced myself to focus on the present — on wiping down the benches, on folding the tea towel over the sink, on the task of preparing for the day ahead. The small things. The controllable things.

But even as I went through the motions, my thoughts never strayed far from the study — from the quiet murmur of voices behind that closed door, and the unsettling feeling that whatever was being said, it would change something I couldn't yet name.