INT. FAMILY HOME - KITCHEN - DAY
Jo turns off the tap and dries their hands on a tea towel that has hung on the same hook for thirty years. They point at a chair.
Sit down. No, sit, because you'll want to walk around and I'd rather you didn't, in Mum's kitchen. I've sold it. Not 'I'm thinking of'. Sold. I said yes on Tuesday, to the Kellys' daughter, the one who used to do the paper round. She's got two kids and she wants the garden. She cried when she saw the apple tree. I'll take that.
You'd have wanted a conversation. That's why I didn't have one. You'd have said 'let's not rush' in the voice, and I'd have agreed, because I always agree with you in that voice, and then it would have been Sunday again.
Do you know what Sunday is. Sunday is the bridge. Twenty minutes over, twenty back, for three years. I bleed the radiators. I run the taps so the pipes don't sit. I put the heating on for an hour in January so the damp doesn't get into her books. I mow. I talk to Mr Adeyemi over the fence about whether we're keeping it, and I say 'we', and he's kind enough not to ask which of us he's ever seen.
You come at Christmas. You've got the kids and the distance, I know. But 'we'll decide together' has meant 'Jo decides by not deciding, every Sunday, indefinitely', and on Tuesday, standing at this sink with the tap running for the pipes, watching the water go down the drain, I found out I'm not willing to do that any more.
So. Completion is the twelfth. Her books are boxed. The good ones are in my car, the rest are yours, argue with me about which is which. The key's on her hook. I'm going to drive over the bridge now, the right way, and I'm not coming back for the mower.