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Big Decisions and Empty Stomachs

G. B. Ralph

I like being around other people, and I like mornings, just not necessarily both at the same time.

That brief period of quiet right after opening for the day? Absolute bliss. Clean floors, and all the products stacked tidily on the shelves, racks, hooks, and display tables. No customers in the store, and only muted sounds coming from outside. People hurried past the front windows on foot, or in cars or buses on the road just beyond, all on their way to work or school or wherever else people went at this hour. The only vaguely human presences in my vicinity were the mannequins flanking the front doors – Jo and Joe.

Before coming in, I’d picked up my coffee from Emily at the corner cafe, crossing paths with a few other familiar faces as I did – Viv from the bank, Duncan from a nearby real estate agency, and Jennifer from the women’s clothing store next door – all in for their morning fix. We acknowledged each other with a nod and a smile, or a brief greeting, but otherwise left each other to it.

Each step of my morning routine was the same today as it was every other weekday. With coffee in hand, I retrieved our copy of the morning paper that had been hurled on the footpath somewhere near the front of the store before unlocking the doors, disarming the alarm, and flicking the switches. The fluorescent strip lighting crackled and popped to life, illuminating the long, narrow store from front to back. The first stock to appear out of the dark were the sports shoes lining the wall to the left, and sporty casual shoes to the right, with low benches on each side for customers to try them on. Then racks of activewear, casualwear, swimwear and other specialist sportswear led to the rear of the store with the changing rooms and the sporting equipment – balls, bats, racquets, and all that.

Everything was where it should be in Bedford Sports, as it always was – Dad made sure of that before closing up each night. I stepped behind the counter to fire up the register, enjoy my coffee while it was hot, and flick through the newspaper that Dad still insisted on getting delivered every morning. I knew I’d have at least ten minutes to myself, sometimes up to half an hour, before customers started trickling in.

As I went to take my first sip, I noticed written on the side of my takeaway cup, in place of the dot above the ‘i’ in Gabriel, Emily had added a little love heart. I snorted then smiled, and couldn’t help thinking back to when she’d first started working at the cafe. An unfamiliar face, and about my age, or maybe a little younger – mid-twenties, anyway. I’d assumed she was new to town, which was confirmed when she began flirting with me. It had started off subtle – friendly, like you might do with any customer – but the flirtation grew stronger by the day, until one day it was conspicuous in its absence.

All the locals knew I preferred guys, not that anybody cared, which probably mirrored my own approach to the whole thing. The gossip had torn through school and town when the eyes of my much younger self had been caught lingering on the senior football boys out on the field. However, my quick and unfazed confirmation of the taunts – ‘Yeah, and?’ – stole any fun from the scandal and everyone immediately got bored with it. Even the school bullies had lost interest after a month or so. It probably didn’t hurt that some of my friends were bigger than them.

The more recent attention from Emily had been a nice little boost to the ego each morning with my coffee, but I didn’t want to lead her on. I’d already decided it was time to dispel any misguided notions, only to find I’d been beaten to it. Considering Emily’s expression of utter embarrassment the next time I’d stepped into the cafe, someone had set her straight, something I was most definitely not.

To be fair, my preference was more theoretical than practical most of the time anyway – the realities of small-town life. Most of my potential candidates had fled to bigger cities the minute they could, leaving few living locally. Of course, there were businessmen passing through for the occasional midweek overnighter, and guys in town visiting family for the weekend, so it wasn’t a complete loss. But I was up for much more than quick, one-off fumbles – call me a romantic.

Not that I discussed this with anyone, not even with Emily, my new platonic barista friend. At least we could laugh about our brief non-flirtation now, as evidenced by this morning’s sarcastic love heart. Disregarding all that, her coffee was as excellent as ever.

I returned to the newspaper spread out on the counter. Today’s front-page story featured a group of industrious local volunteers who had taken in donated clothes and fabric, ‘upcycling’ the material into dog coats, casserole carriers, and doorstops, among other clever uses. I found myself surprisingly engrossed in the story, so much so that I hadn’t noticed Dad’s arrival until he was almost at my side.

‘Morning,’ he said from behind an armful of envelopes and small parcels before he unloaded them onto the counter. Dad came into view properly then – a wiry guy, the build you get from never sitting still for five seconds, the type of person forever getting accused of having ants in their pants as a child.

‘Hey, Dad. What’s all this?’

‘Oh, just cleared out the post office box – haven’t had a chance to duck in all week. Thought I’d better check before the weekend, and good thing I did – look at this pile!’

‘Anything interesting?’

‘Probably not,’ Dad said as he flicked through the envelopes. ‘Bill, bill, bill…’

‘I could start moving some of those online, you know?’ It was one aspect of running the business that I’d become more insistent on as the years went by. In so many other areas, Dad was enthusiastically up to date, but in others… Well, I mean, who else besides my father and the doctor’s office even used fax machines anymore?

‘Yes, yes,’ he said, batting away my well-worn offer. ‘You know I like the paper trail, means we can keep track if anything gets mixed up.’

‘I can replicate that, on the computer – download and save the invoices and bank statements and all that, so we have a record. I think the accountant would—’

‘Oh, what’s this?’ he said, tearing open a larger, fatter envelope. ‘Ah, yes, good. I’ve been waiting for this. Catalogue from one of the wholesalers, next season’s range.’ He set it to the side and gave it a reassuring pat. There’s nothing my father enjoyed more than perusing a catalogue, getting excited about all the new products.

‘There’s one here for you too, Gabriel – nice, thick paper. Very important looking.’ He handed it to me without looking up, continuing to flick through the mail.

I accepted the envelope. It thrummed and crackled in my hands, as if it was alive, or about to explode. Though, of course, that was all in my head – it was just an envelope. I checked Dad was still busy before turning it over, slowly, desperate to know, but also not wanting confirmation in case it wasn’t what I already knew it to be. On the back, pressed over the envelope’s sealed flap, I recognised the crest. And below, the return address, ‘Student Services, Information, and Admissions’.

This envelope contained a letter, I knew that, but what had been written on that letter I did not know. It could only be one of two things, and until I opened it, I wouldn’t know which one it was.

Dad’s presence was reassuring – not because I’d have someone nearby to celebrate or commiserate with, but because I knew there was no way I’d open it with anyone else in the room. As long as he was there, I could put off opening—

‘I’m just going to head out the back, mate,’ Dad said, arranging his pile of mail into a stack. ‘Got to make sure everything in the stockroom is ready for this week’s delivery. I’m expecting the truck shortly, a few new products I’m sure will be a hit.’

We both knew the stockroom was in perfect order, as Dad always had it. He took great pride in the store, both the customer-facing areas and the staff-only areas. My father was not one to do anything ‘half-cocked’, as he often said, likely trying to instil the same work ethic in me and the part-time staff. No, Dad just wanted to peruse the new catalogue without interruption.

‘You’ll manage out here by yourself?’ he said.

I couldn’t help glancing up at the store, with not a customer in sight. ‘Sure, Dad.’

‘Good, yeah, good. Give me a yell if you need a hand.’

‘Will do.’ Now that I knew he was going, I was impatient for him to be gone, but he took his time making his way to the stockroom, deviating occasionally to adjust already perfectly adjusted shelves or displays.

The moment the door swung shut behind him, my eyes shot to the envelope crackling in my hands. I weighed it, passing it from one hand to the other. Despite the thick, high-quality paper, it was surprisingly small and light, considering the figurative weight it held. Shouldn’t it be heavier? Was its near weightlessness a clue to its contents? I allowed myself to go on like this for a few seconds before instigating a self-intervention. Mucking around now would not change what was written in the letter.

I tore open the envelope and was unfolding the letter when the front doors whooshed open. I slapped the letter closed again and slipped it under the newspaper – out of sight, out of mind.

I plastered on my most pleasant yet vacant retail smile, greeted the customer vaguely, then went back to reading the newspaper, as if I’d been doing that all along. Though, to say I was reading was a bit of a stretch. I was taking in none of the articles, only staring – or glaring? – and willing myself to see through the newsprint to the letter beneath.

It was, of course, no good.

Smiling lifelessly, I watched as the customer wandered about the store, now focusing all my energy on silently urging her to leave. She picked up a couple of casual tops from a display table and shook them loose, holding them at arm’s length and checking the price tags before haphazardly folding them and setting them back down. She ran her hand along a rack of light exercise jackets, then stepped up close to inspect the lineup of torso mannequins wearing our range of sports bras, hooking her finger under the elastic.

Utter aimlessness – the customer had no objectives here, no intention of buying anything. This was the behaviour of someone five or ten minutes early for a meeting or appointment, just filling in time while my letter was probably burning a hole through the countertop.

The customer trailed her hands along the clearance rack, considered the backpacks and gym bags, then the racks of women’s activewear, before making her way back towards the front of the store. She glanced my way as she passed and tightened her lips into a half-smile, half-grimace of acknowledgement.

The moment she stepped onto the street, I whipped the letter back out. I knew it was now or never – or, at least until I got home at the end of the day.

Heart racing, hands clammy, I unfolded the letter. I scanned the document in seconds, my eyes picking out key snippets such as ‘enrolment application’, ‘Architecture Department’, ‘pleased to advise’, ‘successful’, and ‘accepted’. I had to put it down and pick it up a few times before I could read through the letter in full.

Eyes widening further with every pass, I put it down once more and said out loud to no one but myself, ‘Well, shit. I’m in.’

After that potentially life-changing, career-kickstarting news, the morning carried on as it always did. Though I couldn’t focus on anything more than the most straightforward of tasks – checking inventory, placing repeat orders with the wholesalers, fulfilling a couple of online orders. My mind skittered off anything I tried to give any more attention. As I boxed up another order – the same medium-sized men’s running top in every colour we offered – I thought again how our campaign to offer same-day local delivery for in-stock items had been a minor coup for the store. It helped us compete against the chains and the online retailers. Bedford Sports backed up that initiative by proudly proclaiming itself to be locally owned and operated for over thirty years. Those very words were even printed in bold letters above the front door – not-so-subtly highlighting the contrast to the big-box superstores on the edge of town. Their arrival a decade ago had prompted Dad to double down on the great charm offensive, support local, all that. He’d even updated our staff name badges with our surnames, reinforcing that the name over the door and the name on our chests were one and the same.

Despite all dire predictions that small brick-and-mortar retail would fall over completely, we kept up a steady stream of loyal customers and long-standing agreements with the local clubs and school sports teams. Dad had always kept prices as lean as he could for them and sponsored a few teams in different leagues. Good to get the shop’s name out there, remind everyone we’re here – that’s what he reckoned, anyway.

I made a cursory attempt at being the salesperson I was supposed to be, but every attempt resulted in my mind sliding off once again, if not to the letter, then something else completely irrelevant to what I was doing. Today really was not a day for pushing sales. I justified that keeping a quiet presence behind the counter was for the best. I found most customers preferred to be left to it anyway, not be crowded by the staff, happy enough knowing we were nearby if they needed us.

Despite my general mental absence, we did steady trade throughout the day. I knew we were down to the last couple of hours when small groups of teenagers in school uniform started coming in. They switched from incessant giggling to playing it cool in a heartbeat, the current mode dependent on which other groups of teenagers were in the store at any given time. It was all quite hilarious to watch, though I would never understand why they chose to hang out in a sporting goods store. At least I didn’t need to worry about supervising the baseball caps and other easily pocketable goods now they were all stocked safely on the wall behind the counter. Besides, if they lingered too long, Dad would wander by and start making conversation or jokes that were a couple of generations out of date – that soon cleared out the youth.

After Dad had employed this tactic once more to great success, I realised I’d been observing him throughout the day. We were so accustomed to having each other around that I rarely thought anything of it. But today, with the letter on my mind, I’d watched him through a new lens. Even though it was the same job every day, Dad clearly loved this place – seeing the customers, talking about their sporting and fitness needs, the way his eyes lit up when he could bring in new products to offer – he loved it all.

A few minutes after the advertised closing time, I rang up the final customer’s purchases, locked the front doors behind them, then went to collect my things from the staff area out back.

We had help sometimes, casual staff, often rostered for the weekends, but mostly it was just me and Dad. We were both here during opening hours, but I tended to open the store in the morning, making sure everything was ready for the day. And Dad finished up every evening after closing, finalising any last things before heading home himself.

‘You off?’

‘Yep, I’ll see you on Sunday, Dad.’

‘You will?’ he said, frowning as he glanced at the roster on the wall. ‘But—’

‘At home,’ I said. ‘It’s Mother’s Day. Everyone’s coming over. I told Mum I’d help with lunch.’

‘Oh, that’s right. Yes, she’ll like that. Is your Nan coming too?’

‘Yes, Dad,’ I said, reading the other unspoken question in his eyes. ‘You are giving her a bottle of wine, and I am giving her a box of chocolates.’

Dad beamed, patting me on the shoulder. ‘What would I do without you, my boy?’

I responded with a tight smile, the guilt hitting me unexpectedly and with its full force as I waved goodbye, the acceptance letter fizzing in my back pocket.

***

‘Darling, there you are.’ Mum said it in such a way that suggested she was pleased to see me, but also that relief was the overriding emotion in that moment. It was Mother’s Day, and I’d arrived well over an hour before anyone else would make an appearance, but perhaps I should’ve aimed for even earlier.

Mum had dressed nicely, with her hair done up in that way I recognised as the quick version – nice, tidy, presentable, but requiring minimal fuss – only suitable for family, close friends, a typical day in the office, or popping into the supermarket. With a harassed look in her eyes, she checked her old apron was clear of any spillage, then summoned me over for a brief yet welcoming hug. Mum gave good hugs, even in a rush, but despite the warmth of the embrace I remained conscious of the acceptance letter crinkling in my jacket pocket – conscious of everything it represented. I’d carried the envelope around with me the past couple of days, and had brought it along with me today intending to show Mum and Dad… but not right this minute.

‘Happy Mother’s Day,’ I said, smiling a little more forcefully than I typically might as I handed over a bottle of bubbles with an elaborate purple bow tied around the neck. ‘I figured you might need this.’

‘You figured right. Thank you, dear.’ She smiled, flashing her eyes. ‘We’ll crack into it soon, but first, can you throw together a quiche for us? We’ve got plenty of eggs, and just see what you can scrounge up in there,’ she said, waving a hand vaguely towards the fridge.

‘Sure thing.’

Mum pushed the glazed ham aside to give me some space, then went back to preparing her green bean salad, while I grabbed the eggs, milk, cheese, baking powder, and oil. I rummaged around for some vegetables, coming up with a red onion, some broccoli, cauliflower, potato, pumpkin, mushrooms, some garlic, and half a bag of frozen mixed vegetables from the freezer. That ought to do it. I chopped and mixed it all together, tipping it into the dish that was always reserved for the quiche – a light blue and yellow flowery number. Nothing said ‘home’ quite like Mum’s quiche dish.

‘You really shouldn’t be in here, especially not on Mother’s Day,’ I said as I slid the whole thing into the oven, well aware that Mum had been getting more vocal in recent years about having had enough of putting on the full spread for the wider family.

‘It is true. I’ve done my decades of cooking every night.’ She paused for a moment to blow the hair from her face. ‘At some point I think it stopped registering with your father. He’d eat anything I plonked in front of him. Did you know these days I’ve got him cooking for us most nights?’

‘You never?’

‘I have,’ Mum said, looking rather pleased with herself. ‘I think he enjoys the challenge. Though I don’t trust him with anything more than the barbeque if we’ve got people coming over…’

‘So, here you are,’ I said, glancing around the kitchen.

‘Here I am.’

‘You do know,’ I said for the umpteenth time, ‘I could’ve prepared—’

‘No! And as you know, I won’t be having any of that. It’s bad enough you’re helping out now. I don’t want to spend all my time with my boy—’

‘I’m hardly a boy, Mum.’

She stopped what she was doing to blow a raspberry my way. ‘You know full well you’ll always be my boy, and I won’t be spending all my time with you doing chores if I can help it.’

I looked around the half-prepared spread. ‘Why are we having Mother’s Day lunch here again, anyway? After last year, I thought you said never again?’

Mum let out the great heaving sigh of the long suffering. ‘I had hoped to let the day slide by without anyone noticing, but it was not to be.’

‘What happened?’

‘Apparently, one of your uncles or aunties mentioned something about Mother’s Day to your father recently, and what did he go and say?’

I had an idea, but I asked anyway, ‘What did he—’

‘He said he presumed we’d be having it here again, just like we have the past few years.’

‘Oh, Dad…’

‘Forgot to mention anything to me, though, didn’t he? It was a good thing Linda called last week or I would never have known they were all coming over.’

‘And so here we are,’ I said, unable to keep myself from smiling as I shook my head, though I did my best to hide that from Mum. This whole thing was classic Dad.

‘Here we are, indeed,’ Mum said, snapping the salad tongs to emphasise the point. ‘I don’t understand why we can’t all do something small with our respective mothers – it’s not like it’s Christmas or anything!’

Trying to move the conversation along, I said, ‘So, when should we be expecting—’

‘The entire extended family to converge on us here? Yes, quite.’

Oops. So much for moving the conversation along… Perhaps Mum just needed to get it all out of her system so she’d be ready to pull on her civilised, family-friendly face when the doorbell started ringing for real.

‘Now, two sets of elderly grandparents, your uncles and aunties, all their adult and teenage offspring – your cousins, that is – and then the next generation after that, which seems to be growing every year.’ She had been checking off numbers with her fingers but threw up her hands at that point. ‘It really is like Christmas Day all over again…’ Mum shook her head, glancing up at the kitchen clock. ‘They’ll probably start appearing in the next half hour or so, no doubt turning up with some tat for their mother – not you though, darling, you always get me such nice things – but the others, absolute rubbish, every time.’

‘You sure you don’t want me to open that bottle, then?’

‘Oh yes, go on. We deserve it.’

I wasted no more time in popping the cork and pouring us each a good serve in Mum’s favourite coupe glasses. I was hopeful the prospect of some bubbles in fine glassware might buoy her spirits, distract her for a minute, allow her to let go of some stress.

She sighed after the first sip, tension draining from her shoulders, and smiling as she placed her glass down on the bench. ‘Delicious, thank you, darling.’

But then her eyes hardened once more as she picked up a large knife and started hacking at the ham. It appeared the relief was short-lived, and she remained determined to vent – verbally and physically. Though, that was probably for the best – if it built up, she’d just release the pressure on some poor, unsuspecting family member. With a house full of unruly relatives, any minor infraction might be the final straw – getting breadcrumbs in the butter dish, or holding a sauce bottle too close and dragging the lid through the food – it could be anything.

‘How many hand creams does one woman need?’ Mum said, picking up right where she’d left off. ‘I mean, are mothers’ hands in greater need of moisture than everyone else’s? I already have the brand I like. I don’t need any specially scented ones in fancy little bottles. Why not a bottle of wine, a box of chocolates, a good book? Those are all excellent gifts.’

By now she’d butchered a good portion of the ham – enough to get everyone started – and begun rounding up bags of bread rolls and buns, then rummaging through the cutlery and utensil drawers. She made crab-like grabby hands as her eyes darted around the kitchen in search.

‘What are you looking—’

‘The – uh – what do you call it? The bun cutter, you know, jagged edges…’

I couldn’t help frowning at my mother. ‘You mean the serrated bread knife?’

‘That’s the one.’

I slid the knife in question, already within her reach and line of sight, across the bench.

‘Ah, of course. Right in front of me!’ She smiled tightly, then proceeded to attack the buns with the aforementioned ‘bun cutter’.

I watched on nervously. ‘Do you want me to do—’

‘No, no. Where was I? Yes – still, no matter the gifts that’ll be inflicted on your aunties and grandmothers, everyone will show up with nothing to put on the table, mark my words.’

She had the serrated knife in one hand, the bread rolls in the other, sawing them in half and slamming them onto a serving plate.

‘Don’t they understand this is a potluck situation, hmm? Everyone is supposed to bring a dish, instead of us cooking for the entire sodding lot of them.’

Without a word I slid a chopping board over in front of Mum too, worried she was about to cut into her hand with the increasingly erratic sawing movements.

‘Thank you, dear.’ She switched to cutting the bread rolls on the board – apparently recognising the wisdom of the unspoken suggestion even while mid-rant. ‘I am going to have words with your father. Where is he, anyway? Is he still upstairs? Never mind, I’ll deal with him later,’ she said, jabbing the knife for emphasis. ‘I mean, I’ll have words with him, but no doubt he’ll have forgotten in a few months’ time. I just know we’ll end up hosting this circus again next year. If that happens, I swear I’m just going to order in KFC – buckets of deep-fried chicken, mashed potato and gravy, coleslaw, fries… Oh, and I do love that popcorn chicken they do.’

‘That does all sound pretty good,’ I said, latching onto the life raft that was this new topic.

‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Mum said, looking down at the salads she’d prepared before I arrived, the ham she’d partially carved, the teetering pile of roughly cut bread rolls, and the quiche still baking in the oven. ‘Do you think it’s too late?’

‘Too late to what?’ I said, unsure of what she was asking.

‘To order KFC.’

‘For lunch?’

‘Uh huh,’ Mum said, thinking it over, nodding as she glanced around again.

I paused for a moment, then clarified further. ‘Today?’

‘Yes… I mean, no. Yes… No, no.’

‘I could—’

‘No,’ she said, holding up a hand, nodding once with finality, ‘we’re almost there. Besides, I wouldn’t give that grandmother of yours the satisfaction.’ Mum heaved a weary sigh and smiled up at me again. ‘Thank you for your help with that quiche, by the way – I’ll keep an eye on it. Go set the table, will you, sweetheart? And grab those loaves from the pantry too – let these vultures fill up on bread. And they might want to put together a sandwich, so chuck the butter, spreads, sauces, and all that on the table.’

I did as she asked, hoping to allow enough time for her to mellow and slide into her serene hostess mode, but not so much time that others started turning up, or Dad returned from wherever he’d vanished to.

When I stepped back into the kitchen, Mum had cleared the bench and was untying her apron.

The time was now.

‘Mum, before everyone arrives, I wanted to tell you something—’

‘What is it?’ she said, quick and short, her eyes wide as she tossed the apron onto the bench.

‘Well, you know how I’ve—’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wr—’

‘Have you got a, you know…’ She nodded down towards my lower half. ‘That’s OK, nothing a quick trip to the doctor won’t clear up.’

‘Wow! No, Mother.’ I huffed out. ‘My – uh – my health, sexual and otherwise, is fine.’

‘Oh, that’s good then.’

‘And why did you go straight there, anyway?’

‘Well, you’re a young man, and these things happen. But you’ve always been good about being safe and—’

‘What? How would you know—’

She waved a dismissive hand. ‘I know my boy, don’t you worry about that.’

‘Right, sure…’ I remained dubious, but unwilling to pursue that line of questioning any further. Besides, it’s not what I was here to talk about.

‘Oh, no,’ she said, her face falling. ‘Has someone gone and broken my boy’s heart? Come here, darling.’ She clawed at me to come closer. ‘You’ve been dumped – that’s it, isn’t it? Who would do that to you? Oh, I’ll get him. Tell me, who’s the bastar—’

‘No, no,’ I said, cutting her off in my exasperation and standing my ground, resolutely unhugged until I’d got this out. ‘It’s a good thing.’

‘Oh… oh! The opposite then – you’ve finally gone and found yourself a nice boyf—’

‘Mum! It’s got nothing to do with boys or my health.’

‘Well,’ she said, hands on hips, apparently put out, ‘what is it, then? Spit it out.’

I realised I didn’t know where to start. I’d always prided myself on being pretty cool in a crisis, but this was really doing me in. Instead of grappling with trying to find the words, I pulled out the letter and held it out to Mum.

She looked at it, suspicious, initially unwilling to take the envelope, but after a moment she did. ‘What’s this?’

‘Just… read it, please.’

She pulled out the letter, slowly unfolding it. Her eyes darted around, scanning the document just as I had, latching onto the key details.

Mum slammed the letter on the bench, eyes scrunched closed, before opening them a moment later, glistening with tears.

‘Oh, sweetheart, this is your best Mother’s Day gift yet. I am just so proud!’ She pulled me into a big, tight, long hug.

‘I only applied to see if I could,’ I said once she’d released me. ‘See if it was an option, maybe, one day. Not that I’m going to do it, I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to take up the offer. I just—’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, of course you are!’

‘But Dad—’

‘Your father has already had you in that shop for far too long as it is. Helping out after school, on weekends, over the summer – that was all only meant to be temporary, pocket money for you.’

‘Yeah, but I thought, maybe you and Dad…’

‘That we were lining you up to take on the family business?’

I looked at Mum for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Well, yes.’

‘Like you were obligated to take it on once we got too old?’

‘Kind of…’

‘No! Oh, Gabriel. No, no, no. I hope we didn’t make you think that. I mean, if that’s what you truly wanted, then yes, of course. But having the shop was our dream – mine and your father’s – and we wouldn’t impose that on you…’

I stood there, speechless for a moment.

‘Oh, don’t get me wrong,’ Mum said before I could think of anything to say, ‘we will miss you something terrible. And your father will grumble about getting someone new in to help – you are irreplaceable, you know that, don’t you? – but you’ll only be a couple of hours up the road! No, don’t you worry about us.’ Mum was tearing up again, but smiling through it. ‘After all these years, I’m so pleased to hear this.’

Her comment about the time that’d passed reminded me. ‘If I enrolled, I’d be considered a “mature” student, did you know that?’

‘What? Really? I mean, yes, you’re a mature young man, but not mature mature – hardly about to line up to collect your pension, are you?’

‘Anyone twenty-five years or older is considered a “mature” student.’

Mum’s eyes bugged out as she shook her head. ‘Well, if that doesn’t age me, then I don’t know what will… My baby, “mature”, ridiculous. Just because you’re not fresh out of high school hardly makes you mature.’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose it makes a difference, but you know…’

‘Oh, you’ll fit right in. You’re not really worried about that, are you?’

‘I suppose not. It’s just a big change to commit to, you know?’

‘I know, sweetheart. But you will go, won’t you? You clearly want to, to have applied in the first place. You don’t fool me with this nonsense about just seeing if you could.’

‘Yeah…’ I snorted.

‘You’re normally so relaxed about these kinds of things, maybe too relaxed?’ Mum thought it over, clicked her fingers, and pointed them at me accusingly. ‘You’ve become too comfortable here – that’s what it is. If you hang around much longer, you’ll never leave. This will be your life for the next four or five decades. Do you want that?’ she said, jabbing her pointing finger at my chest.

‘It wouldn’t be so bad if—’

‘Of course you don’t want that. You need to get out of your comfort zone a bit, put yourself out there.’

I couldn’t help groaning like a petulant child.

‘Don’t you make noises like that at your mother! You might do well pushing yourself a bit, instead of hiding out around here.’

‘I’m not hiding, Mum.’

‘Growing up, you always had big dreams – and this letter proves you still have them! – dreams that were always too big for this place. You’re a big fish, Gabriel, and this town is an itsy bitsy little pond.’

‘I wouldn’t say—’

‘Where you’re going is a much bigger pond, some might even call it a sea. And you know what they say about the sea?’

‘What is that, Mother?’

‘Plenty of fish.’

‘Oh, Mum,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Firstly, as far as mixed metaphors go, that was a shocker, barely even made sense. But it’s Mother’s Day, so I’ll let you have it.’

‘It did so make sen—’

‘And secondly,’ I said, cutting across before she embarrassed herself further, ‘you need to drop it. I already told you we’re not talking about guys today – not meeting them, dating them, or breaking up with them, none of it.’

‘Yes, yes, fine,’ Mum said, throwing up her hands. ‘I’m just saying you might meet a nice young man while you’re there, and then you can bring him home to meet your mother.’

‘Yes, fine,’ I said, knowing the only way beyond this discussion was through it – I’d long since moved on from being coy or embarrassed about such things in front of Mum and Dad. ‘I would be lying if I said that thought hadn’t also crossed my mind. But bringing him home to meet the parents won’t be on my shortlist of things to do first.’

Mum smiled. ‘I’m sure it won’t be, as is only right. Just as long as it’s on the longlist.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Yes, fine. Just – let’s not get ahead of ourselves, all right? I haven’t even decided if I’m going or not yet.’

‘Sure you haven’t,’ Mum said, smiling kindly and patting my arm, not believing a word. ‘I trust you’ll make the right choice, and your father and I will support your decision, no matter what.’

‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said, allowing myself to be brought in for a tight hug. She was right, of course, she always was. I’d already decided I was going to go, just hadn’t admitted it out loud yet.

She’d only had her arms around me for a moment when the doorbell rang and Dad called out from upstairs, ‘They’re here!’

‘Yes, we heard!’ Mum said, yelling back up at him as she relinquished me, her mouth still far too close to my ear. She held me at arm’s length, smiled, and said at a regular volume, ‘I’d better let the vultures in then we can have something to eat. We can’t be making any big decisions on empty stomachs, can we?’ She patted me on the aforementioned stomach, then trailed off to answer the door.

I allowed myself a moment leaning against the kitchen bench, smiled and nodded once, then pushed off to go and greet my unruly relations.

***

‘Have you got everything, darling?’ Mum said, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

‘Yep,’ I said automatically. I loved my mother dearly, but I would never understand why she insisted on asking that. It didn’t matter how I answered, because we’d always be too far away from the house for her to turn around anyway.

‘Everything but the kitchen sink, I’d say,’ Dad said, turning to grin at me in the back seat, wedged against the door with suitcases and boxes filling the rest of the space.

I thought back to Mother’s Day, all those months ago, when I’d shown them the letter. Mum hadn’t been able to help herself throwing little smiles my way all through lunch. Even Dad had picked up on it, which was saying something. And the moment the front door had shut behind the last of the wider family, he’d rounded on us to see what all the fuss was about. If anything, he’d been even more excited than Mum with my little announcement, and he wouldn’t hear a word against me going.

‘You know I appreciate it,’ I said for probably the sixth time in as many months, ‘but you really didn’t have to drive me. I could have done this myself.’

‘Of course you could have,’ Mum said. ‘But I wasn’t about to let my boy head to university without a proper send off – what kind of parents would we be?’

‘And you don’t know what the parking situation will be like yet,’ Dad said, always keen to ensure the parking situation was under control. ‘You might not even need a car – imagine that!’

‘It is the city, after all, dear.’

‘The big smoke!’ Dad said, shaking his head in wonder. ‘But you can pick up your car next time you’re home if you think you’ll need it – I’m sure you’ll manage until then.’

‘Sweetheart,’ Mum said.

‘Yes?’

‘Are we still going to have a little look around – maybe a few photos on campus – before we drop you and your things at your new place?’

How could I have thought something like that might slip her mind? ‘Yes, Mother.’

‘Don’t you Yes, Mother me.’

I said nothing more, only smiled. Mum caught my eye in the rearview mirror and smiled back.

It wasn’t long before we were on the motorway, the single lane in each direction widening out to two, three, four lanes as we closed in on the city centre. Mum and Dad were bickering about which off-ramp was the best to take when I tuned them out, watching through the car window as the buildings grew around me.

Though I had grown up in a small town, the city was nothing new to me. I often found myself here for one reason or another – shows, concerts, special occasion dinners, visiting friends and family – but this felt different. I was moving here, to live. Not just for a day or two, but for years, until I had my degree, and then maybe even beyond that.

I found myself smiling at all the possibilities – study, work, fun, maybe even romance. I had battled with myself about whether I was going to do this or not, but I knew I had to. I was committing to something new, and though I held on to some apprehension, I was excited about the whole thing. Really, it had boiled down to one question: if not now, then when?

‘We’re here!’ Mum said as she pulled into a car park right on campus, a space Dad had proudly directed her to. She turned off the car and leant over to grab a small bag from beside Dad’s feet. ‘Here you are, before I forget,’ she said, handing me the bag.

‘What’s this?’ I said, wondering how I was going to carry it, along with everything else.

‘I packed you a lunch, in case you forget to eat later, or didn’t get time to find food with all the excitement.’

I shook my head, smiling. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

‘And don’t eat it too fast or you’ll get indigestion.’

‘Leave the boy alone. He’s a “mature” student, remember?’ Dad said. ‘He ought to know how to eat by now.’

‘Thanks, I guess?’

‘Any time,’ he said as he opened the door and got out. ‘Right, shall we do this, then?’

I extracted myself from the things piled up on the back seat and clambered out of the car. I stretched my back, sucked in a deep breath, and slowly let it out as I scanned the university campus around me. ‘Let’s do this.’

---

The story continues…

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