I pulled up outside Mum’s just after one, the same cracked driveway I’ve known my whole life. The air already smelled of roasting meat and that particular Basildon Sunday mix of gravy and washing powder. I sat in the car for a minute longer than I needed to, engine off, just breathing it in. Some weeks the pull home feels soft. Today it hit proper hard, like someone had tugged a string right under my ribs.
Mum was already fussing the second I stepped through the door. “Shoes off, love, I’ve only just hoovered.” She said it with that half-smile she always wears when she’s happiest, the one that makes the little lines around her eyes deepen. The joint was in the oven, spitting away, and she kept opening the door every five minutes to baste it even though it didn’t need it. Dad was in his chair, quiet as ever, paper open on his lap though I swear he wasn’t reading a word. He just nodded when I kissed the top of his head and muttered something about the weather looking decent for once.
We all piled in eventually. My brother turned up late with his usual cheeky grin and a bag of those posh crisps Mum pretends she doesn’t like. Plates got stacked high the way they always do. Yorkshires golden and puffed, roasties with proper crunch, carrots that somehow taste sweeter here than anywhere else. We talked absolute nothing. Football scores. The neighbour’s new fence. Whether the corner shop still does those custard doughnuts. Nothing important at all, and somehow that was the best part. No one asked about work or whether I’m seeing anyone. They never do unless I bring it up first. Just the clink of cutlery and the odd burst of laughter when someone told the same old story for the hundredth time.
I felt that loyalty sit heavy and warm in my chest the whole way through. It’s funny how it sneaks up. One minute you’re living your East London life, bossing a team of under-25s and keeping your face straight, the next you’re back in this little house and everything slows down. I watched Mum spoon extra gravy onto Dad’s plate without him asking. He never says thank you out loud, just gives her that tiny look. Been doing it for years. Made me go quiet for a bit. I caught myself thinking about the kind of man who might sit at a table like this one day and fit right in. Tall, dark, the sort who wouldn’t mind a foot massage after the plates are cleared. The hope feels almost silly sometimes, but it never quite leaves.
After pudding (Mum’s apple crumble, still the best) I helped clear up. We stood side by side at the sink, her washing, me drying, the radio low in the background. She asked if I was eating properly up in Hackney. I told her yes, even though half the time it’s toast or whatever I can throw together after a late finish. She didn’t push. Just hummed and passed me another plate. That quiet way she has of caring without making a fuss. I wanted to tell her everything and nothing at the same time. About the competitive edge I put on at work. About the nights I stay soft and hopeful on my own sofa. About how some Sundays I leave here feeling fuller than any meal could make me.
I drove back as the light started to fade. Windows down a bit even though it was still chilly. The loyalty stayed with me the whole way, thick and steady. No big revelations. No drama. Just the simple fact that these people are mine and I’m theirs, and that counts for more than most things I spend my week chasing. I’ll be back in a fortnight, same time, same table, same nothing conversations that somehow say everything. And I’ll feel it all over again.
