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– Jessica, are you home?
– Daniel, Im always at home on Sunday morning. You know that.
– Then open the door.
I peered through the peephole for three solid seconds. My brother stood in the corridor, coat open, two large bags at his feet, looking like hed just lost a bet he was certain to win. Two figures hovered behind him, one taller, one smaller. I closed my eyes, then opened them again. Still there.
I unlocked the door.
– Good morning, – Daniel said, with the smile Id known since childhood. The smile of a man about to ask a favour.
– No, – I said.
– I havent even asked.
– Youre smiling like that. So, no.
Archie squeezed past his dad and looked up at me, all six years old, hair sticking up, shoelace trailing in something suspiciously brown across the hallway parquet. Beside him, Ellie held a one-eared floppy rabbit, eyes full of the serene curiosity only four-year-olds possess. Not a hint of fear.
I glanced down at the floorboards, pale oak from Norseman, installed three months ago by a carpenter Id booked six weeks ahead. Archies lace left a brown smear. I didnt want to guess what it was.
– Come in, – I said, sighing. – But shoes off. Straight away.
The flat, eighth floor of Crown Heights in North London, was my achievement. Not the title of Senior Sales Manager at Hommestead Interiors, not the car, not the number on my bank statement. This, a place of my own: a hundred and four square metres, three-metre ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, a view of the park. Id spent two years choosing furniture, obsessing over lamps, curtain shades from slate blue to dove grey until I found just the right hue that misted over at sunset. The Norseman sofagrey and wide, high-backed. The solid wood coffee table with a charming crack the salesman called character (I nearly returned it, but grew fond of it instead). No clutter. No tat on the sills. Even the Belleview skincare in the bathroom was lined up by height, towels all one colour, identical wooden hangers in the wardrobe.
This was life deliberately arrangedeach thing in its place. Proper quiet, London eighth-floor quiet, punctuated only by the low hum of the Livington fridge or the rare swish of rain against the windows.
Daniel set the bags down in the hallway. The kids took off their shoes. Archie immediately touched the white wall.
– Archie, – I said.
– What?
– Hands.
He looked at his hand, then the wall, then at me.
– Whats wrong with my hands?
I breathed inthree calm seconds, as my stress coach at Hommestead taught me. In, out.
– Daniel, – I said, – just tell me.
He went to the kitchen, perched on the barstool, hands folded in what looked like surrender.
– Hannah and I are off to a retreat. Eight days. We need to talk, really talk, and its impossible with the children.
– Any other option?
– Mums in Scarborough until next Fridayyou know that. Hannahs folks are out in Somerset, whole village locked down over some bug, cant take the kids. Jess I beg you. Just eight days.
– Eight days, – I echoed.
– Or nine… Were back next Sunday.
A noise from the living room. Not loud, but familiara heavy something hitting the floor.
– Ellie, dont touch anything! – Daniel shouted without turning, using that familiar parents voice thats more reflex than instruction.
– Daniel, – I kept my tone quiet; training said it always worked better. – I work from home. Wednesday is a massive online presentation. Clients in three cities. I have no clue how to look after kidswhat they eat, what to say, bedtimes
– They eat nearly anythingexcept onions. Archie wont touch tomatoes. Say what you want, theyre pretty easy. Ellie needs her rabbit to fall asleep, Archie likes a bedtime storybooks in his bag.
– Daniel.
– Jess… – He looked up, eyes carrying something that clutched at my chest. Not pity exhaustion, the kind you dont argue with. – If we dont go, I honestly dont know whatll happen to us. To our family. I dont know.
Outside, a lone cloud drifted over the park. Very white, very peaceful.
– Eight days, – I said at last.
– Thank you.
– Dont thank me yet. I might call you in three hours.
– My phone will be on. Hannahs too.
Daniel left fast, as if afraid hed be stopped. He kissed the kids, called me the best Auntie Jess ever, left a lined, slanted note of instructions on the breakfast bar, and was gone after fifteen minutes.
I stood in the hallway.
Archie and Ellie looked at me. I looked back.
– Well, – I said.
– Well, – Archie agreed.
– Hungry?
– Want juice, – Ellie said.
– What kind?
– Orange.
– Orange juice?
– No. The orange one. Thats orange.
I checked the fridge. Two sorts of sparkling water, a container of cut veg, plain Belleview yoghurt, and an open bottle of white wine. No juice. Id honestly never thought about juice. Why would I? Id never needed it.
– Well go to the shop, – I said.
– Yes! – Archies shout bounced off the high ceiling, perfect acoustics.
I winced.
The shop was next door, five minutes walk. In that time, Ellie dropped her rabbit four times, Archie pressed every button in the lift, including the emergency, and told meat lengthabout a boy in his group called Billy who could spit through his teeth a two-metre distance. Far more about Billy than I ever wanted to know.
In the shop, I bought four kinds of juice, milk, bread, strawberry yoghurts, pasta, chicken burgers, apples, bananas, and a brightly packaged biscuit that Archie sneaked in while I was looking at cheese. I let him keep it. A week ago, Id never have surrendered like that.
The first day passed with only minor discord. Ellie spilled orange juice all over the coffee table; Archie slammed into the doorframe and howled for five minutes. I didnt know how to comfort children. I gave him a glass of water and said it would pass. It was my standard adult advice, and to my surprise, it actually worked. He drank, sniffled once more, and went to watch cartoons on the tablet Daniel had packed.
Bedtime at nine was a no, at tenthe same, half tenstill awake. At half eleven, I read Archie a story about a bear hunting for raspberries, twice, because he asked. Ellie fell asleep on the sofa hugging her rabbit. I watched her for twenty seconds, then gently scooped her up and put her in the guest bed. She was so light and warm, like a little sun. She never woke.
I made herbal tea in my Livington mug, opened the laptop. Three days to the pitchtwo slides to polish, a speech to rehearse.
I sat alone in my kitchen, drinking tea, and couldnt focus.
Second morning: six thirty-seven. I know this because I checked my Livington phone the second the crash sounded from the living room.
Archie got up first and built a fortress from the Norseman sofa cushions. All four on the floor, throw included, Archie at the centre, munching biscuits hed somehow found in the kitchen cupboard. Biscuits, everywhere.
– Morning, – he said, full of energy.
– Morning, – I replied.
– Can you do pancakes?
– Drop scones?
– Round ones, with maple syrup.
– I dont have syrup.
– Shame.
He got porridge instead. Ate it without fuss. Ellie came in at eight, rabbit in hand, clambered sleepily onto the chair.
– I want porridge too, like Archies.
I thought: this is going alright.
The flood happened Tuesday, two p.m. I was editing slides at my desk. The kids were playing in the bathallowed to float paper boats, made from old bills Archie found and ceremoniously transformed. It seemed safe. Water in the tub, children occupied, quiet.
Quiet lasted twenty minutes.
I only realised something was off when I stood up for water and saw a perfect line of shine creeping from the bathroom under the door.
– Oh no, – I said, out loud, in that tone you only use when its already too late.
The tap was on, full. The kids had gone to watch TV, leaving their admirals ship neatly blocking the drain. Water over the edge, judging by the flood, for at least ten minutes.
I shut off the tap. Looked at the mess. Closed my eyes.
The doorbell went twenty minutes later, as I was mopping water in soaked Belleview slippers, probably a lost cause.
– Who is it?
– Your downstairs neighbourseventh floor.
I opened up to a man, about forty. Tall, rumpled, dark-blue jumper and battered jeans, holding his phone up with a picture: his own ceiling, a spreading wet patch around the light.
– Andrew, flat seventy-two.
– Jessica, eighty-four. – I sighed. – I know. Children.
– Got it, – he pocketed his phone. – Need a hand?
I looked at him. Waited. Usually, this is where people scold, threaten management, mention compensation. Im used to those conversationsits my job, really.
– Did you say, help?
– Sounds like youve still got half a lake. Ive got a builders dryer and a proper mop downstairs. Proper squeeze and all.
Archie peeked over my shoulder.
– Are you the man from downstairs? Is it wet because of us?
– Because of you, – Andrew agreed, and I tensed. But he didnt sound annoyed. Just curious: – Good boats?
– Brilliant! Mine was an aircraft carrier!
– Serious stuff.
– Come in, – I said. No reason to make him stand in the corridor.
The next hours a blur. Andrew fetched the mop, actually helped clear water off my floor, unbothered, offered Archie the raga Very Important Mission, apparently. Ellie surveyed from the doorway, occasionally pointing out damp corners with impressive accuracy.
– Your ceiling alright? – I asked when wed finished.
– Bit old anyway. Paint was peeling. Itll dry.
– Ill pay for repairs.
– Well see. – He shrugged. Not a threat, just how things were. – You had them long?
– Second day.
– Yours?
– Niece and nephew. No, I dont No children.
He nodded, glancing at Archie thumbing the TV buttons.
– Right, – he said. – Then heres a tip: get a proper plug for the drain. Any hardware shop. And keep the tap slow.
– Duly noted.
– Good luck, – he said, turning with the mop. He paused at the door. – Im on seven. If you need help, just knock.
– Why are you so calm? – It slipped out, unintended.
He thought.
– Would shouting make my ceiling dry faster?
He left. I leaned against the closed door, sun dipping over the park. In the kitchen, Ellie was demanding half the remaining biscuits from Archie, who objected.
I divided the biscuits, silently.
Both kids watched me with a new respect.
Wednesday, I prepped for my pitch. Kids watched cartoons in the lounge, power-bank full, plates of chopped apples and crackers on the table. Everything under control.
Presentation at eleven. Me at the desk in my home office: laptop, camera, blazer over pyjama vest. Seven people from three cities. London regional head, two from Manchester, one from Birmingham.
Fifteen minutes in, smooth as silk. Thencabinet door burst open.
– Aunt Jess! – Ellies shout mustve been audible on the seventh floor. – Archie took Bunny!
– Ellie, – I said, as coldly professional as I could, – Im working.
– He says Bunnys ugly!
– She is! – Archie yelled from the living room.
– Sorry, – I smiled into the camera, displaying that nothing-to-see-here look, – one moment.
Paused, went through. Archie holding Bunnys last ear, Ellie clutching the torsoboth pulling.
– Let go of Bunny, both of you.
They released. Ellie clutched Bunny, sniffing. I re-found the cartoon, one with talking animals, returned to the pitch.
Eight minutes, then: a silent knock. Archie entered, stood at my desk, intense. I kept speaking, side-eyeing him. He didnt move.
– I need a wee, – he announced, perfectly clear to the whole call.
Manchester burst out laughing; the others followed. I blushedactually blushed, the first time in fifteen years.
– Archie, you know where the loo is.
– I just wanted to tell you.
– Off you pop.
He left. The pitch lost its formal edge but found a realness: Ive three myself, totally get it, said Manchester. Birmingham liked the collection, set another date.
I closed the laptop. Sat still for a long time.
I realised: I wasnt angry. It felt odd. Id expected anger.
I made cheese sandwiches for the kids. Archie said they were delicious. Ellie managed half, mostly talking to Bunny.
Doorbell. Four oclock.
– Plug for the bath, – Andrew said, holding out a bag.
– Did you get it specially?
– Had to buy bread anyway.
– Come in.
I didnt plan to invite him. I just did, and he removed his shoes without fuss, Archie bounding in.
– Thats the man who helped!
– Thats right, – Andrew smiled.
– Is your ceiling dry yet?
– Nearly. Give it two more days.
– Good. – Archie nodded with satisfaction. – Can you play Jenga? Ive got a set; Dad packed it.
– I can.
– Come on, Ill get it.
So Andrew found himself at the Norseman coffee table building a wooden tower. Archie on one side, Ellie on the other (Bunny as mascot). Andrew played seriously, and the children seemed to sense it.
I pottered in the kitchen, making dinner, and really just watched.
– Careful, Archie, see the end piece? If you push left…
– How do you know?
– Towers always have a weakness. The trick is spotting it.
– Life like that too? – Archie asked, sudden gravitas.
Andrew paused.
– About the same.
We all had dinner. Andrew stayed, helped fry the burgers, and sliced the bread perfectlyspotting my wonky sawing and quietly taking over. Cheeky, but the loaf looked better.
– Have you lived here long? – I asked.
– Three years. Saw you move in with those lamps.
– Youre observant.
– Just off to work at the time.
– What do you do?
– Structural engineering. Sort of dull.
– Why dull?
– No-one asks if it looks goodjust if it stands.
– Thats more important.
He looked at me with surprise, as if hed never heard that answer.
– True, – he said.
Kids were out by nine, easy as you like. Andrew finished his tea, thanked me, stood to leave.
– Good night, – he said at the door.
– Good night. And thank you. For the plugand for not getting cross.
He held my gaze a little longer than usual.
– Youre doing fine, – he said. – For a first timer.
– How do you know its my first time?
– You look like youre carrying a glass vase, terrified to smash it.
I laughed. Properly. For the first time.
He left. I stood in the hallway. Ellies blue coat with a teddy button hung beside Archies waterproof. My own coat distanced itself a little, as if in deference.
Thursday and Friday blurred by differentlysomething shifted. I stopped jumping at every loud noise. The porridge-and-juice routine became almost comforting. Ellie liked to sit by me while I worked, drawing rabbits in a notebook. There were lots, all with names.
– This is Mummy Rabbit, – Ellie explained, drawing. – This is Daddy Rabbit. That small ones Button.
– Why Button?
– Because hes little and round.
– Makes sense.
Friday night, Andrew called. He brought a board game from his atticCapitals of the World, old, Soviet-era box, battered. The kids didnt know any city on the cards, but played with gusto.
– Whered you get this?
– From my childhood. I brought a few things, without knowing why.
– Good thing you did.
We sat on the floor, not the table. I couldnt recall last time I did that. The Norseman parquet cool and smooth. Ellie snuggled close and, absorbed in play, nodded off, head on my lap. I found my arm round her, without noticing when it happened.
Andrew noticed but said nothing.
We spent Saturday in the parkAndrews idea. I didnt argue. It was the park I viewed from above. Archie found a puddle, waded through despite my protests. I carried his waterlogged boots in a bag, he clomped in soaked socks, unbothered.
– Not bothered? – I asked.
– Why?
– Wet shoes.
– Theyll dry.
– Youre like Andrew.
– Hes cool, – Archie nodded. – Auntie Jess, is he your friend?
– Hes my neighbour.
– Is that the same?
– No.
– Why not?
I had no answer. Andrew, behind, carried Ellie on his shoulders, explaining trees. She listened like she was hearing wisdom.
Sunday evening, Daniel rang. His voice was higher, lighter.
– How are they?
– Alive, – I said. – Archie conquered a puddle. Ellie drew forty-seven rabbits.
He laughed.
– Youre doing it.
– Not too badly. Hows things your end?
A pause.
– Better. Much better. Thank you.
– Good. Im glad.
The second week was gentler. I knew Archie would snub tomatoes yet devour tomato soup (if not told). Ellie needed the window just a crack at night. At half seven, their sulks signalled tiredness rather than naughtinessit was better to suggest bed than negotiate. These were small, unremarkable bits of knowledge, acquired by living, not the instructions.
Andrew dropped by every eveningsometimes with something, sometimes just himself. We talked kitchen-side after the kids bedtime. About work, the city, books. He reads a lota surprise for a structural engineer. I used to too before work bled all leisure away.
– What are you reading? – he asked.
– Nothing. Only work slides these days.
– Doesnt count.
– I know.
– Want me to bring you something?
– Please do.
He brought a Murakami novelabout a woman sorting her late mothers things, discovering how little she really knew her. I would read, post-bedtime, the best half-hour of my day.
Second Thursday, Archie wanted to see my office.
– Where do you work?
– Here, the study.
– Show me.
He looked at the desk, the Hommestead sample books, a tiny cactus.
– Are you happy?
– In what sense?
– About work.
– I yes? I think so. I like my job.
– Dad says its got to make you happy, else whats it for.
– Dads right.
He thought. – Auntie Jess, why do you live alone?
– It just happened that way.
– Didnt you want someone to live with?
– I got used to it. I liked it.
– Liked?
I paused.
– Liked, – I repeated.
The last day arrived too soon. Daniel came at one, Hannah with himsofter-faced than Id seen in ages. She held the kids tightly; Ellie clung for three minutes.
– Jess, – Hannah said, – I honestly dont know how to thank you.
– No need.
– Were they good?
– They were children, – I smiled. – Thats enough.
Hannah seemed surprised by that.
Packing took an hour. Ellie wept a little. I hugged her, promising shed visit again. Archie shook my hand seriously, comical and touching at once, then darted back for a real hug before running to his dad.
Door closed.
I stood in the hallway. Ellies coat gone, just mine left.
The flat was quiet.
I wandered into the lounge. The sofa cushion was ruffledArchies morning cartoon perch. On the floor, by the coffee table, a forgotten little drawing: rabbit familyMum, Dad, Buttonand, a bit off to one side, a little yellow-haired figure. Auntie Jess written in wobbly caps.
I held the picture for a long time.
Then made tea. Turned on the Livington kettle, filled my favourite mug. Everything in place, crisp, quietjust how I liked it.
I waited to feel relief. The sort of relief that returns after chaotic weekends, after boisterous work dos, after anything that jostled my usual rhythm. Coming back to myself.
It didnt come.
There was only the drawing, and a silence that sounded different now. Not peace, but a pause after a songwhen youre not sure if its a good silence yet, just noticing things have changed.
I sat in the kitchen with tea, staring out at the park, thinking.
I thought of Archie asking if I was happy. Ellie asleep, snug at my side on a Friday evening, not moving my arm. Of my office, before and after Archie asked to see ithow my view shifted.
Of Andrew.
Of him cutting bread into neat slices. His calmness that wasnt detachment, but something steadierlike a supporting beam. Of him calling in nightly, never expecting anything, simply being there.
Of the past nine nights, not once waking anxious about work. For five years, that background hum of worry had been constant.
Six oclock. I got up, washed my face, pulled on my favourite navy jumpermy lucky one. Picked up my phone, then put it down, then picked it up again.
I didnt ring him. I took the lift to the seventh floor and rang seventy-two.
Andrew opened in seconds. Watched me, not surprised, but attentive.
– Theyve gone, – I said.
– I heard the door.
– Its quiet.
– I suppose so.
– Want to come up for a cup of tea? Kettles just boiled. Well, maybe tepid, but Ill put it on again.
He paused, then:
– Id like that.
We took the lift up. I boiled the kettle again. He sat at the barstool where Daniel hadonly now, someone else, a different conversation.
– You know, – I said, – its my first evening with absolutely no obligations in nine days. And I have no idea what to do with myself.
– Good or bad?
– Just odd. – I hunted for words. – Unfamiliar.
– Youll get used to a new unfamiliar.
– What does that mean?
– Once, it felt odd being alone. You got used to it. Now its odd for different reasons.
– You talk like someone whos been there.
He looked up.
– I was married. Six years. Three years not.
– Im sorry.
– Dont be. It was always going to happen. Good people, just not meant long-term. – He paused. – The hardest bit wasnt the break-up, but the silence after. The feeling that being alone and being with someonethose silences arent equal.
I stared at my mug.
– I used to think silence meant freedom. That solitude was a choice.
– Maybe it is. Sometimes choices change.
– Yours?
– Its changing. – He smiled slightly. – With the help of neighbours children who make floods.
I laughedreal laughter.
– Andrew.
– Yes?
I hesitated. This was the moment to draw back, to deflect as Id done all my life.
– I like you. I want you to know that.
He looked at me quietly.
– Good, – he said finally, warmth in his voice. – Because I like you too. I thought that.
– When?
– Since you asked why I was so calm. No ones ever asked.
– Odd reason.
– Im full of odd reasons.
We drank tea and talked for hours: about work, about views from different floors, about the kids, the little rabbit-family drawing left behind. He didnt rush off; I didnt want him to.
At the door, he just took my hand for a moment.
– Good night, Jessica.
– Good night.
I leant on the door, like on that first night, but the quiet felt different. Warm, not empty.
In the lounge, I placed Ellies drawing on a shelf, propped against a vase. Four rabbits, with the yellow-haired aunt. Crooked, but unmistakable.
A year passed.
Not many changesbut enough for anyone whod known me a year ago to notice. Brightly coloured childrens books appeared on the lower shelf, left from the last niece-and-nephew visit. Four pots on the windowsill, not just one cactus. One pot askewEllies enthusiastic watering. Two coats on the hall stand: my dark blue one, and Andrews grey.
On the coffee table with its character crack, an open booklet of Andrews technical drawings, a mug with cold coffee, and a novel marked with a bobby pin.
I stood at the window, watching the park, now autumnal and wild. I liked it best in autumn.
My bump was showing nowfive months and unmistakable. I was getting used to it slowly, day by day; first impossible, now beautifully ordinary.
The door opened.
– Theyre on their way, – Andrew said, strolling to the kitchen, – Daniel texted, theyre in the car.
– So, half an hour.
– Archie call you?
– Three times. Wants to know if he gets cartoons or the park.
– He gets both.
– Thats what I told him.
Andrew filled the kettle. Turned to me.
– How are you?
– Good. Legs ache a bit. But good.
– Sit.
– Im standing.
– Jess.
– Okay, Im sitting. – I moved to the sofa. – You know, I realisedthis time last year, I stood in that kitchen, waiting for silence to be relaxing.
– And was it?
– No.
– I remember. You came downstairs.
– You were waiting?
He thought.
– Not certain. More hopeful.
The doorbell rang, loud and urgentthe knock of a child unable to contain excitement.
– Thats Archie.
– Has to be.
– Will you get it? Its a mammoth effort for me to stand now.
Andrew went.
– Auntie Jess! – Archie shouted from the hallway before the door swung open. – Were here! Are we going to the park? Are there leaves? Has your tummy grown?
– Archie, – Daniel grumbled, – let everyone in first, mate.
– Im in already.
Ellie shuffled in quietly, surveyed the flat, found me with her eyes, and came over. She hugged mefirm, grown-up. Then, still serious:
– Auntie Jess, is Bunny here?
– On the guest room shelf, just where you left her.
– Good. – Satisfied, she released me. – I thought so.
The hallway filled with exuberance. Daniel clapping Andrew on the shoulder, Hannah chatting to me about the drive, Archie disappearing and reappearing with the bear-and-raspberry book.
– You kept it! Will you read it to the baby?
– I will.
– Good. – He nodded, content that the order of things was maintained. – Andrew, park? Are there leaves?
– Heaps of leaves.
– Come on, then.
– Tea first, – I insisted. – Then the park.
– You always say that.
– Always will.
– Fine, – Archie agreed, meeting my gaze with the straightforwardness that hadnt faded in a yearlikely never would. – Auntie Jess, are you happy now?
The house was alive: voices, Hannah laughing, Ellie calling for Bunny, the kettle whistling, city sounds behind the windows, and the small, unfamiliar life wriggling inside me.
I looked at Archie.
– Yes, – I said.
