The flat on the narrow lane in York still holds the memory of that evening after his service. The hall smelled of damp shoes and a rainsoaked coat still clinging to the peg where my son, Edward, had left his own hook empty. He slipped in almost silentlystout, closecropped, dressed in the dark uniform of the army. I saw his eyes had changed; they were no longer hard, merely wary. I hurriedly smoothed the rug at the doorway and offered a weary smile.
Come in everythings ready. Ive aired your room and put fresh sheets on the bed, I said.
He gave a small nodhard to tell if it was gratitude or simple politeness. He set his battered suitcase against the wall, paused on the threshold of his bedroom, and stared at the familiar wallpaper with its faded diamonds, at the shelf that still held the picture books of his childhood. It seemed as if nothing had moved, except the air, now cooler since the central heating had been switched off a week earlier.
In the kitchen I laid out the plates: cabbage and leek soup at his request, and new potatoes tossed with parsley from the market. I tried to keep my voice calm as I set the table.
You could have called before you came I was expecting to meet you at the station, I said.
He shrugged. I wanted to get there on my own.
A pause stretched; only the clink of a spoon against a bowl could be heard. He ate slowly, almost in silence, answering briefly about the road, about his unitthe sergeant was a good man. I caught myself looking for a chance to ask about his future, but I could not bring myself to speak directly of work or plans.
After supper I busied myself with washing the dishesthose familiar motions soothed me more than any conversation could. Edward slipped into his room, leaving the door ajar; from the hall I could see only the back of a chair and the edge of his suitcase.
Later, he stood by the kitchen window, the soft draft from the slightly open casement reminding me of early summer: the sun was setting late, spreading a gentle light over the sill where small potted herbs stood.
The next morning I rose before him, hearing his shallow breathing through the thin wall of his bedroom, careful not to clatter dishes unnecessarily. The flat felt tighter; Edwards belongings had reclaimed the spaces in the hallway and bathroom that were once mine; a toothbrush lying beside my old chipped mug seemed oddly bright.
He spent most of the day at his computer or scrolling his phone, emerging only for breakfast or lunch. I tried to keep conversation going about the weather or the neighbours; he answered in fragments before retreating back to his room.
One afternoon I bought fresh dill and spring onions at the market.
Lookyour favourite herbs, I said.
He glanced absentmindedly. Thanks later?
The herbs wilted quickly on the table; the flat grew warmer as evening fell, and I dreaded opening the windows for longa draught had always unsettled him since he was a boy.
In the evenings our meals became a series of awkward pauses that stretched longer than the conversations themselves. He rarely praised the food; more often he ate in silence, sometimes asking to keep his plate for the next morning because his appetite was gone. Occasionally he forgot to clear his cup or left the bread tin open after a midnight snack.
I noticed these small changes. Once he had always cleared the table without a word; now I felt awkward reminding a grown man, so I quietly swept the crumbs myself.
Tiny mishaps multiplied unnoticed: a towel vanished from the bathroomEdward had taken it to his room; someone misplaced the postbox keylater we both searched the flat among bags and bills.
One morning I found the bread tin empty on the table.
We ought to buy some bread, I murmured.
From his room Edward muttered, Fine
I planned to go out after work, but a long queue at the chemist held me up, and I returned home weary by dusk.
Edward stood by the fridge, phone in hand. I opened the bread tin automatically; there was nothing inside. I sighed, You said youd get some bread?
He turned sharply, his voice louder than usual. I forgot! Ive got other things to do!
A flush of irritation rose despite my fatigue. Of course you always forget everything!
Our voices rose, the cramped kitchen growing hot with our breathing. Each of us tried to prove a point, yet beneath it all lay a deeper exhaustion, a fear of losing the closeness that had once seemed so simple.
Silence fell over the flat afterwards, as if the energy of the quarrel had dissolved into the night air. A dim desk lamp cast a long shadow across the empty tin. I lay awake on my back, listening to the occasional click of a switch, the distant hum of water in the bathroom. Edward moved cautiously, as if afraid to disturb the walls that now felt both familiar and foreign.
I thought back to the days before his service, when questioning was easy, when a scold over forgotten rubbish or a late dinner was harmless. Now every word felt riskyany misstep might shatter the fragile balance we were trying to keep. The fatigue behind my daylong work and his long silence in those four walls weighed heavily.
The clock read nearly two in the morning when I heard soft steps in the corridor. The kitchen door creaked as Edward poured water from a jug. I lifted myself onto an elbow, torn between staying in bed and getting up. I slipped on my dressing gown and padded barefoot across the cool floor.
The scent of yesterdays damp mop lingered; I had wiped the counter before sleep. Edward stood by the window, his shoulders slightly slumped, a glass clenched in his hand.
Cant sleep? I asked softly.
He winced faintly, not turning at once. Cant either
A heavy silence settled between us, broken only by a droplet sliding down the glass of the jug.
Sorry about this evening I raised my voice for nothing, I said. Youre tired and Im tired too.
He turned slowly. Im to blame everything just feels strange now.
His voice was hoarse from the long quiet; he avoided my eyes.
We sat again in silence, but the tension eased with those simple words. I moved a box of tea toward himan automatic, soothing gesture.
Youre an adult now, I said gently. I need to learn to let you go a bit further Im always scared Ill drop something or do it wrong.
He looked at me intently. I dont fully understand how to be here Back then it was simple: they said do it, and we did. At home its different. It feels like there are new rules that Im not part of
A small smile curled my lips. Were both learning to live together again perhaps we should agree on a few things?
He shrugged. We can try.
Relief flooded me at his willingness to seek common ground. We agreed aloud on simple matters: he would buy bread every other day, I would wash the dishes after supper, and wed each have a quiet evening without questions of where we were going. Both of us knew this was only the beginning, but honesty and calm had been spoken.
I asked cautiously about his plans for work. Did you want to look for something? Do you still have your service documents?
He nodded. Yes. The discharge papers were given straight after I left the army; theyre in my backpack with my service record but where to go now?
I remembered the local Jobcentre. I told him briefly about the free advice and programmes for veterans returning to civilian life. He listened, a little wary.
Do you think its worth going? he asked.
I shook my head. Why not? If you like, I can go with you in the morning, keep you company, or help sort the paperwork.
He thought for a while, then said, Lets try together first.
The kitchen grew a touch warmerperhaps because the overhead light was off, leaving only the soft glow of the lamp, perhaps because for the first time in days we spoke calmly and honestly. Outside, the streetlights of neighbouring houses flickered in the dark; some residents were still awake in their modest flats on this late spring night.
When our talk ended on its own, we cleared the cups and wiped the counter with a damp cloth together. Morning greeted us with a gentle light through the heavy curtains; the town was stirring slowly, the courtyard filled with the chatter of schoolchildren and the chirping of birds at the open kitchen windownow opening the windows no longer seemed frightening. The air felt a little warmer, the chill of the night gone with the worries of previous days.
I put the kettle on and fetched a packet of crisp biscuits for breakfast in place of the missing loaf. On the table I laid Edwards documents: a redcovered service card, his discharge certificate, and his passport. I stared at them calmlynow they were symbols of a new chapter in his life, beginning here and now.
Edward emerged from his room, still a little drowsy but without the old distance, and sat opposite me, offering a brief smile.
Thank you, he said.
I replied simply, Shall we go out together today?
He nodded, and that yes meant more to me than any promise could have.
