The youngest one and I are in the bedroom of his new flat, on our hands and knees over the assembly instructions for a flatpack bed.
“I think I get it,” I say. “Pass me another pegule.”
“Here,” he says.
“Not the short pegule,” I say. “A long pegule.”
When you assemble flatpack furniture you don’t just have to count the parts, you have to name them. The bits and pieces are novel and the instructions are pictograms. Nothing has a name until you give it one.
“I think this front ladderation is the wrong way round,” I say.
“No it’s not,” he says. “The pegule holes are right there.”
“Look at the back ladderation,” I say. “They have to line up.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he says.
“Stand it up this way,” I say. “And pass me four of the plastic tube hats.”
Because his new flat is close to our house – he will have to pass it on his way to and from work – the youngest one has been moving out in stages over a fortnight. But once this bed is put together he will officially live elsewhere for the first time. He went to university in London, through an era of strikes and then Covid. He basically got a degree from his bedroom.
Back at home my wife stands by the door as he walks out with his last two bags. “I’m not making a big deal of this,” she says.
“I might be back tomorrow if the internet’s not on,” he says.
“I know,” she says. “That’s why I’m not making a big deal of this.”
Within minutes of his departure my wife is upstairs hoovering his old bedroom. When I look in an hour later, the bed is against a different wall.
“I want that cupboard ripped out,” she says, pointing to the corner. “We don’t need it now.”
“OK,” I say.
“I’m freaking out,” she says.
“I know,” I say.
The next day I find myself in the supermarket, unable to perform the simple calculations that will turn supper for four into supper for three. I will just have to eat more, I think.
After I arrive home the oldest one drops in on his way back from a wet holiday in Cornwall, with two sacks of dirty laundry. He took the dog with him, and is now handing it back.
“So we moved him out over the weekend,” my wife says, meaning the youngest one. “He took the last of his stuff yesterday.”
“Does that mean his room is available?” says the oldest one. “I might just stay here tonight.”
“The bed is made,” my wife says.
“I might have to get more food then,” I say, recalculating.
“I’m not here for supper,” my wife says. “I’m going to the Barbie movie.”
“Fine,” I say. “So back to three.”
“I’m not here either,” says the middle one. “I’m also going to see Barbie.”
“I saw it in Cornwall,” says the oldest one. “It’s great.”
“So two,” I say.
My wife and the middle one leave. The youngest one comes by on his way home from work – three again. I revise my calculations.
“I might need to send you to the shop,” I say, “for a single chicken thigh, and some wine.”
“I’ve got wine at my flat,” he says.
“Then go get it,” I say.
“Can I see your flat?” says the oldest.
“Yeah, come on,” says the youngest.
Suddenly I am alone, with the dog and the cat staring at me. A dark cloud passes in front of the setting sun. Rain drums against the skylight.
Forty-five minutes later the oldest and the youngest return bringing six beers and three-quarters of a bottle of white wine.
“Where’s the chicken?” I say.
“I forgot,” he says.
It is almost 9.30pm when I finally get food on the table. We are still eating when my wife returns. The middle one comes back 20 minutes later – a full house.
I find myself in the middle of a very loud discussion about the Barbie movie. The beer is gone, and the last of the wine is in my glass.
“Ken’s great,” says the oldest. “And the music is actually great.”
“I loved it,” my wife says.
The noise in the room reaches a level I have not heard in a long time. Everyone is playing clips from the Barbie movie on their phones, and laughing.
“I saw Oppenheimer,” I say.
No one hears.