“Mum said you weren’t going to Zurich.” My brother is sitting in the kitchen as I finish preparing the lunch for 16 people to celebrate our mother’s 80th birthday.
I defensively reply, as the chicken fat spits at me aggressively from the frying pan “I said I wanted to talk to dad first and understand more before I committed. I never said I didn’t want to go. Have you booked your flight to Zurich already?
“Yes, I booked it ages ago”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I feel like I’ve been waiting to know what to do.” I am trying to grasp this fact and navigate how it makes me feel, and at the same time wonder why Stuart didn’t tell me. Am I out of pace with what I should be doing, should have done, or have I been dragging my feet? I actually don’t know anymore.
“I just booked it, and dad reimbursed me”
“When are you flying home? Can you share your flight details with me so I can get on the same flight?” I ask
“I’m flying home late Wednesday because I thought I might look at some Rolex watches whilst I’m in Zurich.” Retail therapy at its very best, I think to myself.
My head is reeling as I digest all this information – you want to look at expensive watches the day after your father dies. I actually can’t quite believe everything I am hearing.
I place the chicken on the dish, take a swig of fizz, and say “I’ll book my flight tomorrow”. I know I won’t be on the same flight home because I won’t be looking at Rolex watches, shopping, or even in the mood to enjoy Zurich. I will fly back first thing the following morning, back to my home where I can recover, mourn and cry.