Page 99 of Insidious

“Thanks for becoming the new and improved Isaac,” I tell him. “I couldn’t have managed without you.”

A vulnerable expression flickers across his face now, like the words mean everything.

***

I’m folding tiny sleepsuits into the laundry basket when Mum calls to FaceTime.

Honestly, I still don’t understand how someone so small produces this much washing.

There are vests. Bibs. Muslins. Tiny socks that disappear into another dimension. Now, they are all mismatched. Little sleepsuits with strawberries on them. Sleepsuits with ducks on them. Sleepsuits with mysterious stains that defy modern science.

I’m fairly certain that Amelie’s laundry alone outweighs mine and Isaac’s combined. Possibly multiplied twice. Meanwhile, Isaac and I have essentially been rotating through the same three traumatised outfits for weeks.

Mum launches straight into an update about the bathroom renovations before I can even say hello.

“The tiles are finally done,” she announces. “And your father somehow ordered the wrong sink again.”

I hum softly while folding another tiny vest and spot a patch of dried yellow goo that I somehow missed.

“In his defence—”

“There is no defence,” she says immediately. “That man should not be allowed near measurements.”

Dad mutters something in a deeply offended tone in the background.

Amelie lets out a loud squeal from her playmat.

Mum’s whole face softens instantly.

“Oh! Let me see my girl.”

I lift Amelie into my lap and angle the phone down. Mum coos immediately as my girl attempts to eat the corner of the blanket like the fate of the galaxy depends on it.

“She’s getting so big,” Mum says wistfully. I know she is waiting for when we visit them in a couple of months.

“She has two modes. Adorable angel and hangry demon,” I correct.

“You were exactly like that. Your cousin brother used to eat your baby food, and somehow, you seemed to know.”

I sigh, thinking of my brother, who will be back from active duty soon. “I hope I peed on him regularly to pay him back for his greed.”

For a little while, we just talk about how awful the weather has been. How the neighbour’s dog, who my dad calls a rat-terrier, chews on his newspaper and leaves little nuggets on the lawn for him to find. The fact that Dad nearly electrocuted himself trying to “help” with wiring. Mum is calling it self-resuscitation for extreme stupidity.

Then, Mum asks, in a serious tone, “And how did the visit go?”

I know immediately which one she means. I shift slightly against the sofa.

“Social services seemed happy,” I say. “We got a letter yesterday.”

Mum seems to be holding her breath.

“And?”

“They said everything looks stable now. One more visit in three months and they’ll probably close the case.”

The relief that washes over her face hurts a little to look at. It also makes me feel guilty about how much I made her worry—made them all worry.

Because underneath the relief, I can still see the shock. The fear. That I might do it again.