Chapter 2 Her Father's House

Aurora didn't know how long she cried. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe more.

Her mother held her the whole time and rubbed her back. "I've got you," Emily kept saying. "I've got you."

Aurora noticed little things while she cried. The smell of her mother's cardigan, soap and onions. The hall light flickering the way it always did. Her father standing in the doorway not moving, his newspaper hanging from his hand like he'd forgotten he was holding it.

When she finally calmed down, they took her to the sitting room and sat her on the old brown sofa. She did her homework on this sofa when she was a girl. Nothing had changed. Same sofa, same curtains, same clock on the wall.

Her father sat in the armchair. He folded his newspaper and put it down. He didn't say anything at first. He never rushed anybody.

Emily came back with a glass of water. "Drink."

Aurora drank a little.

Emily hovered. "Are you hungry? I've got soup from yesterday, I can heat it up."

"I'm okay, Mom."

"You're not okay, you're white as paper. I'll heat the soup."

"Emily," James said. "Leave it a minute."

Emily sat down, but she kept twisting the edge of her cardigan.

"Okay," James said. "Now tell us what happened."

"It's nothing, Dad. Just a small argument."

"Aurora."

"It's really-"

"Don't lie to me. A small argument doesn't make you cry like this."

She looked down at her hands. Then she told them. All of it.

She told them about the breakfast. Mark sitting there on his phone, not even looking up. How Margaret called her a housegirl and said that was all she was good for. She told them what Margaret said about them, that they were nobodies and had raised a girl with no manners.

She told them how it started. Margaret said the tea was too weak. Then it was the eggs. Then she said, in front of Mark's sisters, that a real wife would've been up at five making a proper breakfast, and that some girls just aren't trained for it.

"And then she looked right at me," Aurora said, "and she said, 'Well, you can't train what your parents never taught.' Like I was a dog."

Emily made a small sound in her throat. James didn't say anything. His jaw was tight.

"I lost it," Aurora said. "I told her she was no mother to me. I said she should look at her own daughters, and why they're home with no husbands. I know that was cruel. I shouldn't have said it in front of everyone."

"Olivia and Evelyn didn't deserve to hear what I said either. They looked like I'd slapped them. But I couldn't stop, Dad. It just came out."

She waited for him to shout at her.

"I'm sorry. I embarrassed you."

Nothing. Then he smiled a little.

"Dad?"

"Say the part again where you told her not to talk about us."

"I said, don't talk about my parents."

"And what did she say?"

"She asked how dare I."

"And you said?"

"I said I dare because I'm tired."

James leaned back and breathed out. "Good."

"Good?"

"Yes, good. I'm proud of you."

Emily looked at him. "James."

"Let me talk, Emily." He turned back to Aurora. "Three years you've been going to that house. Every Sunday you came here smiling. You think I didn't notice? I noticed. I kept quiet because you said you were fine and I wanted to respect that. That was wrong of me."

"I should've said it when you came home last Christmas with that thin face. I told myself you were grown, it was your marriage. But you're my daughter first."

Aurora's eyes filled again.

"Dad, Mark isn't a bad person. It's his mother. She raised him alone, he-"

"I'm not talking about what he is. I'm talking about what he did. He sat there while she insulted you. And when you answered her, he sent you out of the house. Did he say sorry in the car?"

"No."

"Did he say he'd fix it?"

"He said I was making a mistake."

James nodded like he'd expected that.

Emily took her hand. "Aurora, are you sure? Maybe in a few days when everyone's calmer, you can both talk-"

"Emily."

"I'm just saying."

"I know. I'm not angry at you." James sighed. "But she's been trying to stay calm for three years. Look at her."

Emily's mouth went tight. Then she nodded and wiped her eye. "I don't want her alone, that's all."

"She won't be alone. She'll be here." He got up and looked out the window. Mark's car was long gone.

"What do you want, Aurora?" he asked. "Not what they want. You."

"I don't know. I want to go back and make it not happen."

"That's not on the table."

"I know."

"Then for tonight, you stay. Tomorrow you can think about the rest." He looked at her. "Nobody's deciding for you. Not me either. But tonight you're staying. Starting now."

"Dad, I can't just-"

"Emily, is her room still made up?"

"I change the sheets every month," Emily said. "Just in case."

Aurora put her hand over her mouth. Her mum had been changing the sheets on an empty bed for three years.

"Go and have a bath," James said. "Sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."

"My clothes are all at the house. My things-"

"We'll buy new ones."

"Dad, everything I own is there."

"No," he said, and his voice was soft. "Everything that matters is in this house. The rest is just stuff."

She got up and hugged him, the way she did when she was little. He put his hand on the back of her head.

"Welcome home," he said.

She stayed in his arms a long time. He smelled of newspaper and the same cologne he'd worn her whole life.

Her old room hadn't changed. Same blue walls, same desk by the window. There was still a poster on the wardrobe door from when she was sixteen, curling up at the corners. She stood at the door a while before she went in. It felt like somebody else's room.

She sat on the bed and looked around. On the desk was a shoebox she'd forgotten about. She opened it. Photos from university, her and Mia with terrible haircuts. A ticket from the first film she and Mark ever went to see together. She'd kept it all this time. She held the ticket for a long while, then put the lid back on.

After the bath, her mother brought her an old nightgown and a cup of tea. Not too strong, no sugar. The way she liked it. There were two plain biscuits on the saucer, the ones she used to eat after school.

She took a sip and nearly cried again. "It's right," she said.

"What is?"

"The tea. Nobody's told me it's wrong."

Emily sat on the bed. "I should've said something. Years ago. You got so thin. You stopped laughing. I kept thinking it wasn't my place."

"Mom, it's not your fault."

"Your father cried before the wedding. Did you know that? In the garage. He said he didn't like that woman's eyes. I told him every father says that." Emily gave a short laugh. "He never forgave himself."

"He never told me."

"You were happy."

They sat quiet for a bit. Then Aurora said, "What if I made a mistake? If I'd just kept quiet, Mark and I would still be-"

"Still be what? Unhappy?"

She didn't answer.

Emily kissed her head. "Sleep, love. Tomorrow's another day." She turned off the light.

Aurora lay there listening to the house. The clock in the hall. Her dad on the stairs. The tree outside the window moving in the wind.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Mia. *Are you ok?? Evelyn called me. She said you left.*

Evelyn called Mia? Aurora rang her straight back.

"Oh my God, where are you?" Mia said.

"At my parents'."

"Thank God. Evelyn rang me about half an hour ago. She was crying. She said you finally told Margaret off and Mark threw you out."

"He didn't throw me out. He drove me here. I told him not to come back for me."

"Okay. What did he say?"

"That I was making a mistake."

"Of course he did." Mia was angry now, Aurora could hear it. "Listen. I love Mark. I helped him pick the ring. But what he did tonight was wrong."

"I said horrible things."

"Like what?"

"I called her a bad mother. In front of her own kids."

"Her kids are grown women."

"You know what I mean."

"I do. And I also know what she said about your mum and dad first. Don't make yourself the bad guy, Aurora. You've been doing that for three years."

"I know."

"Do you want me to come over?"

"No. I think I just want to be on my own."

"Okay. Aurora? Do you still love him?"

Aurora looked at the ceiling. "Yeah," she said. Her voice broke. "Stupid, isn't it?"

"It's not stupid. Give it time. He might wake up."

They said goodnight. She put the phone on the pillow and tried to sleep.

She couldn't. Every time she shut her eyes she saw Mark with his hands on the steering wheel, not looking at her. She heard herself say, don't come for me.

She thought about the first year. How he used to bring her coffee in bed. How he'd text her in the middle of the day just to say he was thinking about her. She couldn't say when that stopped. It didn't stop all at once. It just got less and less, around the same time his mother started coming round more.

She meant it when she said it. She was so angry. Now, in the dark, it felt different. It wasn't so strong anymore.

She picked up the phone and found his name.

*Don't,* she told herself. *You said don't come for me. Let him come.*

But he wouldn't. She knew that. After every argument they ever had, Mark waited. He waited until she said sorry first. Until she made his favourite dinner or touched his arm. Always her. Always.

*One call. Just to say goodnight.*

She pressed it.

It rang. Four, five, six times. Then his voicemail, that polite voice he used for work. *You've reached Mark Stone. Please leave a message.*

She hung up.

She stared at the screen. The call said 0:00. That was how long they'd talked.

At 1:14 she called again. It rang out.

At 1:20 she called again. Nothing.

At 1:40 she called again. Nothing. At 1:52 she called and let it ring until the voicemail cut in on its own, nine rings, ten, eleven.

Somebody knocked softly on the door. "Aurora? You awake?"

"Yeah, Dad."

James opened it a little. He was in his dressing gown. "I'll be downstairs. If you need anything. Even at three in the morning."

"Thanks, Dad."

"We taught you to be kind. We didn't teach you to take everything and say nothing. Maybe we got that part wrong." He stood there a second. "I meant it. I'm proud of you."

"Even though I made a mess?"

"You didn't make the mess." He closed the door.

At 2:03 she typed a message, deleted it, typed another one, deleted that too. In the end she sent three words.

*Please call me.*

It said *Delivered.*

She watched it for ages, waiting for it to say *Read.*

It never did.

Across the city, Mark Stone sat in the dark on the edge of the bed in the big house, with his phone in his hand.

Her name was on the screen. *Aurora.* It lit up his face, went dark, lit up again.

He'd counted. Eleven calls since midnight.

Every time, his thumb hovered over the green button. Every time he told himself, just say hello. Just ask if she got there okay.

Then he heard his mother's voice from that morning, and from every other time he'd ever fought with anyone. *Don't run after her. She'll never respect you again.*

He put the phone face down on the blanket. It buzzed against the wool and stopped.

The door opened. Margaret stood there in her silk robe, her hair already pinned for the night. Like she'd been waiting up.

"Is that her?"

"Mom, go to bed."

"I'm asking if that's her."

"Yes."

She came in and sat down beside him. She smelled of the lavender cream she'd used his whole life. She put her hand on his knee, the way she did when he was a boy who'd been told off at school.

"I know you're hurting," she said. "I do. But she's calling because she thinks you'll give in. If you answer once, she'll learn that it works. Do you want a wife who talks to your mother like that, and then rings you crying at midnight to get her own way?"

"She was upset."

"We were all upset."

"You said her parents didn't teach her anything."

Margaret's hand went still. "That's different."

"How is it different?"

She took her hand away. She didn't raise her voice. It just got quieter. "Because I'm your mother. Everything I did, I did for you. Don't forget that."

He remembered. The one-room flat after his father died. Her two jobs. The nights she went without dinner so he could eat. She brought it up every time they argued, and it always worked.

He looked at the floor.

"Promise me," she said. "Tomorrow, when she calls, you don't answer."

"Mom-"

"Promise me, Mark."

The phone lit up again behind him. He didn't have to turn it over to know what it said.

"Okay," he said quietly. "I promise."

Margaret patted his knee and stood up. At the door she stopped. "Good boy," she said, and went out.

He sat there a long time. Mark was thirty-two years old and his mother had just called him a good boy, and he hadn't said one word.

Then he turned the phone over and read the three words on the screen. *Please call me.*

He read them again.

He didn't move.

Aurora woke when the sun was already in the room. The phone was still in her hand, the screen warm.

There was a new message. Not from Mark.

It was from a number she knew. Margaret's.

*Do not call my son again. You have said enough to last a lifetime. If you want to keep your family's name out of this, you will stay quiet.*

Aurora read it twice. Then a third time, slower.

Her family's name? What did that mean?

She looked at the door her father had closed the night before. Down in the kitchen she could hear him moving around, whistling something under his breath, like it was any other morning.

She wondered what Margaret Stone knew about her family that she didn't.