Where I End and She Begins

Growing up

By Sunday afternoon, I moved through the house slowly, folding the twins’ laundry from the weekend like they were already home. Their socks never matched properly. Samuel preferred the ones with the faded blue stripe; Leo always stole them. I placed the pairs neatly at the end of their beds anyway, smoothing the blankets like I used to when they were small enough to believe it made a difference.

The quiet didn’t feel wrong.

Just stretched.

Dad finally texted just after five.

Running a bit late. Boys having a great time. Back tonight.

Relief came in a small wave. Not dramatic. Just steady.

I made pasta for dinner — enough for four out of habit — then stared at the extra portions sitting untouched on the stove. I packed them into containers and slid them into the fridge. The house felt larger when I ate alone. The sound of my fork against the bowl echoed more than it should have.

After washing the dishes, I wandered into the twins’ room. Their posters were slightly crooked. One of their toy cars sat abandoned near the door. I picked it up and set it back on the shelf.

I tried not to think about Friday night.

Tried not to replay the videos.

It was easy to blame the music, the lighting, the alcohol. Memories weren’t perfect recordings. They shifted. They edited themselves.

And Lola had texted me Saturday morning. She’d left because her dad called.

That was real.

My phone buzzed softly in my hand as if summoned by the thought.

Lola: Survived brunch. Barely. Mum asked if I’d “met any nice boys.” Kill me.

I smiled despite myself.

Me: Tragic.

Lola: What are you doing?

I glanced around the empty lounge.

Me: Waiting for the boys to get home.

Three dots appeared instantly.

Lola: You worry too much. They’re fine.

I stared at that message a little longer than necessary.

Me: I know.

Outside, headlights swept across the front windows.

A car door slammed.

Voices — high, excited, familiar — drifted toward the house.

I stood up before I even realised I was moving.

The front door burst open, and the twins rushed in at once, talking over each other about beaches and ice cream and some arcade Dad had found near wherever they’d gone. Dad followed more slowly, looking tired but satisfied, like he’d accomplished something important.

“There’s my girl,” he said, squeezing my shoulder in passing.

Not hugging. Just squeezing.

“You didn’t have to cook,” he added when he spotted the clean kitchen. “We grabbed food on the way.”

Of course they had.

“That’s okay,” I replied.

The twins were already unpacking souvenirs — plastic keychains, a cheap stuffed animal, a postcard they insisted we stick on the fridge.

The house filled up again quickly. Noise. Movement. Life.

And just like that, the silence from earlier felt like something I’d imagined.

Later that night, when the boys were finally asleep and Dad had retreated to his room, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

My phone lit up one more time.

Lola: School tomorrow. Don’t be weird in art class again.

I let out a quiet breath.

Everything was normal.

It had to be.

I typed back:

See you at the gates?

A pause.

Then:

Obviously.

Monday morning came too quickly.

I was up before my alarm, the habit too ingrained to ignore. The house was warm again, lived-in. I could hear the twins whisper-arguing in their room about whose turn it was to shower first.

“Both of you. Five minutes,” I called down the hallway, already tying my hair into a low ponytail.

I moved through the kitchen automatically — cereal bowls, spoons, school lunches. Dad had already left for work. There was a mug in the sink and the faint smell of burnt toast lingering in the air, but no note this time. Just absence in its usual, quieter form.

The twins came barreling in, still talking over each other.

“And then Dad let us stay up till like, ten!” Samuel said.

“It was nine-thirty,” Leo corrected immediately.

“It was basically ten.”

I slid bowls in front of them. “Sounds wild.”

“It was,” Samuel said seriously. “We went to the beach and Dad said we can do another trip if we’re good this term.”

“That’s great,” I replied, forcing a smile.

Leo hesitated before taking a bite of cereal. “Why don’t you ever come?”

The question was so casual it almost slipped past me.

“What?”

“On the trips,” he said, shrugging. “You never come with us.”

Samuel nodded. “Yeah. Dad said you had school stuff. But it was the weekend.”

My hands stilled on the lunchbox I was packing.

“I’ve got my own things going on,” I said lightly. “High school’s different. Harder.”

They exchanged a look — one of those twin looks that didn’t need words.

“You could come next time,” Samuel said. Not accusing. Just stating it.

I swallowed.

“Maybe,” I replied.

They were getting older. Tall enough now that I didn’t have to crouch to fix their collars. Old enough to notice patterns. To see who was included and who wasn’t.

Old enough to ask questions.

I handed them their lunches and watched as they slung backpacks over their shoulders, suddenly seeming less small than they had last year.

“Race you to the corner!” Leo shouted, already darting toward the door.

“No running near the road!” I called after them, grabbing my own bag.

As we stepped outside, the morning air was crisp and sharp against my skin.

For a moment, walking behind them, I felt something shift — not dramatic, not loud — just the quiet awareness that the dynamic was changing.

They wouldn’t always need me like this.

And I wasn’t sure who I’d be when they didn’t.

I walked them all the way to their classroom doors, like I always did.

Most of the other kids were peeling off at the gate now, calling quick goodbyes over their shoulders. The twins still let me fix their collars, still let me remind them to listen properly and not talk through instructions. But they were quicker about it this morning — more aware of who might be watching.

“Bye, Am,” Samuel said, already stepping backward toward his friends.

“Don’t forget your spelling book,” I added.

Leo rolled his eyes lightly. “I won’t.”

They turned and disappeared into their classroom without looking back a second time.

I stood there a little longer than necessary.

The playground was loud — whistles blowing, sneakers squeaking against concrete, teachers calling out reminders. It felt strange not to have small hands tugging at mine.

When I finally started walking toward the gate alone, the space beside me felt wider than it should have.

They were growing up.

That was normal.

That was good.

But as I crossed the road and headed toward my own school, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was shifting too — something less visible. The boys were starting to notice things. To question things. And one day soon, they might ask questions I didn’t have careful, simple answers for.

Like why Dad took them away so often.

Like why I never came.

Like why it sometimes felt like there were two different versions of our family — the one they lived in, and the one I held together quietly behind them.

I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and picked up my pace.

Ahead of me, the high school gates came into view.

And without meaning to, I found myself scanning for Lola before I even reached the corner.