The Mug and the Margin

“You can brew tea, serve comfort, stir hope—and still be left out of the conversation.”

Stomping around the kitchen, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, I sensed Jerome's presence even before he spoke.

It was a mother’s intuition — something wordless and instinctive — finely tuned over the years. A shift in the air, the soft creak of a floorboard, the hush of movement behind me. No sound, no announcement. Just presence.

“Do you want one too?” I asked, my voice warm and inviting, a reflexive response to the needs of my child.

Despite the turmoil that Luke’s unexpected arrival had stirred within me, the role of nurturer, of caregiver, was as natural as breathing. It kicked in before I had time to process, before the fog of unease could thicken. A cup of tea, a kind word, the small scaffolds of motherhood that held everything upright.

“Yes, please,” Jerome replied, his tone a mix of gratitude and subdued reflection.

I glanced at him briefly, taking in the slight furrow between his brows, the way his arms crossed loosely over his chest. I could sense the weight of his own thoughts, the quiet heaviness that hung about him. Questions, perhaps, that mirrored my own. Hovering just beneath the surface.

As I prepared the mugs, the familiar clatter of ceramic against the bench offered a strange sort of comfort — a rhythm I could count on, even as everything else felt uncertain. The steam rose in lazy tendrils, the scent of peppermint and black tea mingling in the air.

“Is Millie coming home today?” I asked, grasping at a thread of normality, a topic that might provide a momentary respite from the larger concerns at hand.

Jerome's response, tinged with a flicker of optimism, offered a glimmer of hope amidst the uncertainty.

“She should be. I'll call the vet in a few hours to find out.”

I simply nodded.

As I reached for the pantry, my movements a familiar dance of domestic necessity, I couldn't help but wonder at the paths we each navigated within the tapestry of our shared lives.

There was something oddly comforting in the small, repetitive gestures — the reach for the Weet-Bix, the familiar creak of the lower shelf, the scrape of jars against timber. My body moved from memory, even as my mind wandered far from the kitchen.

Jerome's quiet presence was a reminder of the strength and resilience that flowed through the veins of our family. He didn’t speak much — never had — but when everything else felt uncertain, his stillness had a kind of gravity to it. Something solid I could lean into, just for a moment.

“Are you eating now?” I asked.

Jerome's response — a shake of his head and a murmured admission of a queasy stomach — spoke volumes about the depth of his own emotional upheaval. He didn’t need to explain. I could see it in the way he held himself, in the way his hands stayed folded in front of him, unmoving.

I studied his face — still boyish in some ways, though the weight of growing up had begun to settle across his features. The shadows beneath his eyes were faint, but I noticed them. The worry sat just behind his gaze, and I recognised it immediately. Different reasons, perhaps, but the same ache.

“Millie will be fine,” I reassured him, my gaze seeking his, a silent offer of comfort and understanding.

Even as my own heart raced with the implications of Luke’s visit, even as I fought to hold back the swell of dread still pressing behind my ribs, the need to soothe, to protect, to guide — it remained. An unwavering constant. A duty that shaped every breath I took.

As I retrieved my special blend of granola — the one with the toasted almonds and dried cherries that none of the others could stand — I felt a brief flicker of amusement at the dietary quirks that had become a source of gentle teasing between us.

Even now, in the midst of everything, the smallest routines held meaning. The way I measured out just the right amount, the way the wooden scoop nestled perfectly into the jar — it was something trivial, yes, but mine. A small, steady thread in the tangled web of our family life.

I couldn't help but marvel, even in that moment, at the intricacies of our family dynamics. The choices we made, the paths we walked — so different, so fraught, and yet woven together nonetheless. Each one of us a thread in the grand tapestry of our shared existence, no matter how frayed at the edges things felt now.

The click of the kettle, loud and sudden, was a sharp intrusion into my contemplations. It snapped me back to the present, to the steam rising from its spout, to the simple, grounding task of pouring and stirring.

I watched, a silent observer, as Jerome prepared his own mug — carefully, methodically.

“What's Luke doing here?”

“No idea,” I snapped, the words escaping before I could temper them, my frustration and unease finding an outlet in the sharpness of my tone.

I instantly regretted the bite in it, but I didn’t apologise.

The feeling of being left in the dark — of being deliberately excluded from the narrative unfolding within my own home — was a bitter pill to swallow. I was tired of being patient, tired of waiting for truths to come to me second-hand. It felt like standing outside in the cold, staring through the windows of a house I was supposed to belong in.

Jerome, unperturbed by my outburst, pressed on.

“How long is he staying for?”

I could only offer a huff in response, the sound escaping in a burst — a mix of resignation and irritation.

“I don't know,” I admitted, the words tasting of defeat on my tongue.

Saying it aloud felt like surrendering ground. I didn't know. I hadn't been told. I hadn’t even had the chance to prepare. That small confession, honest as it was, only served to deepen the sense of powerlessness that had taken root within me over the past week — its tendrils now creeping further in.

“I didn't even know that he was coming.”

There it was — the admission that left me exposed, standing bare before the truth of my own exclusion.

“Did Dad know?”

Jerome’s question, the next logical step in the slow unravelling of Luke’s mysterious appearance, struck a nerve. It wasn’t accusatory — not exactly — but it landed with precision, cutting clean through the heart of what I’d been avoiding.

The disparities in knowledge and involvement — in who was told what, and when, and why — were starting to feel less like coincidence and more like a pattern. One that left me outside the circle I was meant to be at the centre of.

I could only shrug, my pout a silent testament to my own sense of exclusion, of being relegated to the role of spectator in a play I had no script for.

“I don't know what your father knows,” I said, the words heavy with the weight of my own frustration and disappointment.

I stared into my tea, letting the silence settle between us. I hated the taste of that admission too. It made me feel small.

And I had never been small in this family. Not until now.

As Jerome lapsed into silence, I could sense the delicate balance that hung between us.

The need to press for answers warred visibly with the desire to preserve the fragile peace of our morning routine. A truce forged not out of contentment, but necessity.

I stirred my tea though I’d no intention of drinking it, the spoon clinking gently against the side of the mug. Even the sound felt intrusive in the thickening quiet.

But as the minutes ticked by, the tension that filled the kitchen — once a haven of warmth and familial connection — grew increasingly oppressive. It seeped into the walls, into the clatter of spoons, the rustle of a cereal box being closed, the creak of the fridge door.

Each movement, each gesture, seemed laden with the unspoken. The questions hovered, swollen with pressure, threatening to spill over with the slightest nudge.

And then, as if a dam had burst within me, I found myself declaring my limit, my voice cutting through the uneasy calm.

“That's enough time,” I announced.

It came out more forcefully than I’d intended, but I didn’t take it back. I couldn’t bear to stand there any longer, waiting — waiting — like a bystander in my own home.

With a swift exit, I left the kitchen, the air behind me heavy with the weight of the unsaid and the undone.