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‘I’m hungry!’ Jack says from the table.

I clench my jaw and take a slow, deep breath. ‘It’s coming, Jack. I’m serving it now.’

‘Mum gives me dinner at seven.’ He points to the clock on the wall. ‘It’s half past seven. I’m hungry!’

‘Tom!’ I call. ‘Dinner!’ The TV blares and the cacophony of noise grates on me.

Tom shuffles into the kitchen and sits at the table – the table that isn’t set. ‘Not in the laundry.’

For fuck’s sake. I grab the cutlery, stomp across the tiles and drop it in the middle of the table, along with the salt and pepper, then turn off the TV.

‘No!’ Jack yells.

‘It’s loud, Jack. And we’re about to have dinner,’ I say.

‘I want it on! Mum lets me have it on.’

I look at Tom for support, but he just gives a ‘kids, hey’ shrug.

I grit my teeth and switch it back on but reduce the volume, then place the plates on the table and sit down.

‘Oh. Um…’ Tom says.

I cut into my steak and glare at him.

‘No mustard?’ He peers at the contents on the table, moving his head from side to side as though the mustard will reveal itself if he looks for long enough.

Twisting, I look at the fridge behind me, which is only about four steps away, three with Tom’s long legs, and then back at him. ‘You know where the fridge is, don’t you?’

He stares at me a beat. ‘Oh. Right. Yes.’ He hops up, grabs the mustard and slathers it on his steak in less time than it took to ask me where it was.

Jack gazes at the TV while he mindlessly shovels in small bites of meat, leaving the salad. Tom occasionally glances my way while he eats, accompanied by a quick smile. I watch both of them as I work through my own meal, seething over the ingratitude, and with each passing second, my soul withers.

Within ten minutes, Tom snaps his cutlery together in the middle of his empty plate. ‘Thanks, Holly. Lovely.’ He yawns, not covering his mouth in time to disguise the food stuck in his teeth. ‘Sorry. Such a long day.’ He rests his hand on my shoulder. ‘I don’t suppose you could find my work shirt?’

I stiffen. Now that I have no job, I’m even more of a housewife.

He takes his dirty dishes to the sink, gives them a quick rinse, places them in the dishwasher and heads back to the lounge. Jack jumps off his chair and rushes after him.

A sourness curdles in my belly, deep in my core, and I blink back tears. ‘I’m done,’ I whisper. I ignore the kitchen mess, find Tom’s shirt and place it on the ironing board, then head to the bathroom for peace and a hot shower.

As the warm water soaks my skin, my mind shifts to the conversation with Nat last night. An open ticket across the world sounded like a good idea with my camera in hand, heady from bottomless wine. This morning the guilt and fear took hold. I told myself that it was irresponsible to travel when I have no job and that I shouldn’t leave a good relationship or Mum. But when Adam and I were in his back garden this afternoon, warming ourselves in the winter sunshine, he told me to go.

‘Shit, Hols. If I were you, I’d be gone,’ he’d said, face tilted to the sun.

‘You don’t think it’s a bit irresponsible?’

He shrugged. ‘You’ve basically been given a year off. There’ll be heaps of time to look for jobs down the track.’

‘It’s Mum too, though.’

He glanced back at the house where Mum was playing cards with Meg and the kids. ‘It’s not like you can do anything to change her situation. Besides, you can call and FaceTime as much as you want. The world’s small these days, and it’s not like she remembers much of the day-to-day convos anyway.’

‘I guess so.’ I paused. ‘Then there’s Tom.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘You can’t tell me you’re happy with Tom.’

‘No, I’m not. But I don’t know how to end it.’