Her Mum

Her mum still texts me. I don't have the heart to tell her we broke up.

Well, she knows. Everyone knows. But Karen is a woman who sends a "Happy Easter!!" with seventeen emojis, and she's never once acknowledged it. It's like I'm still family on a technicality.

Kayla and I dated for two years. I ate at their table every Sunday. Karen taught me how to make proper gravy. Her dad and I watched the football in comfortable silence. I loved that house more than I loved my own.

Then Kayla said I wasn't ready for forever. She was right. I got scared. I'm the guy who runs from the thing he wants most.

So last week Karen texts me: "Found your scarf in the hall. Shall I post it, or will you pop by?"

Pop by.

I stared at that phrase for twenty minutes. Because if I pop by, I'll see the hall. The hooks. Kayla's trainers, probably. And Karen's face, which will be kind, and that's the part I can't take.

I typed, "Could you post it? Thanks so much."

She replied instantly. "Of course, love. Door's always open, you know."

Then, a minute later, one more text.

"Kayla asked me to give you this too. Said she'd never ask herself."

A photo. The scarf, folded on the radiator, with a sticky note.

"Please come get it."

Her mum didn't send me a scarf.

She sent me a door.