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“I’m meeting Mamá this morning and collecting more clothes.” She carried her pot to the table.

“What about food? An army runs on its stomach.”

“‘You can’t start the day without caffeine’, ‘An army runs on its stomach’—do you always talk in clichés?”

“Just establishing your routine. I’d say grumpy until you’ve downed your ginger pick-me-up.”

She drummed her nails on the table. “I’m nervous. I’ve made up my mind that I’m staying, but I’m nervous. Mamá will feel she’s let me down in some way. She’ll have food, and she’ll smile, but I’m afraid I’ve hurt her.”

Cas took the seat beside her and leaned against her upper arm. “My mother cried the first time I moved out. I felt like a traitor. She told me to go, while the tears poured down her cheeks. Leaving home is complicated, but it’s a normal rite of passage.”

“My sisters lived at home until they married.”

“Lucky them,” he muttered. Was she breaking some sort of religious or cultural taboo? “It’s different for everyone. Want me to take you over there?”

Her sisters had hurt her, taken her hard work for granted, and she worried about taking something for herself. Marshmallow soft and hiding it behind scratchiness. Cas had seen the same confusion in the children of other migrant families. Often, it was the eldest girl expected to make the most sacrifices from early childhood. Maha’s interest in childcare had been partly honed by looking after him and his other sister Zahra from before Maha turned ten.

“Better not. I could be there a while.”

Not a complete no.

“Then text me when you’re ready to leave, and I’ll come and get you.”

“How do I explain you?”

Cas grimaced. “Am I going to be your dirty little secret?”

“Oursecret. For a while. Mamá and Papá need time to adjust to me moving out. Moving out for a few weeks.”

So, she intended to go back.

“But, I wouldn’t have agreed to let you stay if I didn’t trust you.”

“Let me stay!” He pretended outrage to hide the kick of pleasure discovering the lovely Beatriz Gomez trusted him to share an apartment with her. For a week. She was careful about boundaries.

He’d never lived with a woman, apart from his mother and sisters. Girlfriends had stayed over, or he’d stayed at theirs for shorter or longer periods. Most of them got sick of his long work hours and reluctance to party. His fault, and when he’d started spending less and less time with Monique, she’d probably felt entitled to target his family’s money.

He still woke in a sweat some nights reliving those weeks when he’d cursed his naivety. The devastation in his father’s eyes showed Cas had fallen short. Again. You’d think he’d have learned from Hunter’s experiences. Instead, his obsession with establishing his own textile and fabric design business had made him an easy target.

I’m carrying your child.

Not true, but he’d run out of options, until Hunt and Maha had stepped in.

Avoiding commitment had been his takeaway, especially now he was about to devote every waking moment to his new business.

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Cas pulled into thedriveway of the neat two-story home in Artarmon. Not a suburb he knew well, but colleagues talked about property—my family talks property. Artarmon had shot up the charts in recent years because of its proximity to transport and good schools. Worth a bit, when he’d assumed the family was struggling. An assumption based on his assumption Beatriz was still living at home, so her board money supplemented the family’s budget.

Maybe Beatriz was hiding a secret addiction or saving for a dream? That would also explain staying at home.

What’s your dream, Beatriz?

She must have been watching for him, because the front door was thrown wide when he pulled up. Beatriz trundled a large suitcase up the path, a mature woman with a food carry bag behind her. The resemblance was strong. Beatriz would age like her mother, some grey in the thick dark waves, a few wrinkles, still beautiful, much like his own mother, lines of laughter and love for the most part, but no families escaped tragedies.

“Hello, Beatriz, Mrs. Gomez.” He popped the boot and loaded the suitcase, sliding it in beside the boxes he’d collected this morning.

“Casildo Hariri, isn’t it?” Mrs. Gomez stretched out a hand, her smile warm. “I saw your face in some of Anna’s wedding photos.”