Rania Algafari never asked to be different, and when she escaped the war in Syria and moved to the UK, her only goal was to live her life in peace. Get up, go to work, avoid talking to the dead - that sort of thing.
But not everyone dies quietly, an...
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Worse. It wasn't only my father who'd turned up, but my mother too. She unfolded herself from the passenger seat, perfectly poised as always, while my father slammed the driver's door and went to take her arm.
I hadn't seen either of them for...how long? A year, at least. More. Eighteen months, at my niece's christening. My older sister had invited me because she felt she should, I'd gone out of an ingrained sense of obligation, and my parents didn't do more than glance at me as I skulked at the back of the church.
And now they'd turned up here. Were they feeling all right?
I studied my father as he walked. He'd always cut an imposing figure, but today he seemed subdued. Frailer.
"William," my father said.
"What do you want?"
Maybe I should have been more polite, but we'd passed the point of civility when he threw me out of the house eight years ago.
"Your father needs to speak to you. We both do." My mother peered closer at Aisling. "You have a family? Nobody told us."
"She's not mine."
Mother peered down her nose at Rania, reminding me once more why I decided to go it alone. "You're dating a single mother?"
Rania took a step back, and I couldn't blame her. I had no desire to be around my parents either.
"No, Mother, I'm not." Might as well summarise to get this meeting over faster. "Aisling's mother and Rania are staying with me and RJ since their home got burned down. Why are you here?"
"Aren't you going to invite us in?" Mother asked.
I'd rather not have, but the only thing worse was having a conversation with the pair of them in full view of the neighbours. I'd already seen one curtain twitch.
"Sure. Welcome to my humble abode."
Inside, I shoved RJ's duvet off the sofa, and my mother wrinkled her nose again as she perched on the edge of the seat. If she knew what he'd been doing in that spot last night, she'd have bleached it first, and I swallowed a snort at the thought. My father took a pew next to her, looking as though he'd rather be somewhere else. At, say, a dental appointment or a funeral.
"Would you like tea or coffee?" Rania offered.
Escape to the kitchen—good tactic.
"Do you have decaf?" my father asked.
I raised an eyebrow. "Decaf?"
"Your father had a heart scare earlier in the year. He's cut out caffeine, alcohol, and saturated fat."
Boy, dinner at their place must be fun now. Even eight years ago, red wine had been the only thing that got me through three courses.
"Sorry to hear that. Do you want a drink, Mother?"
