Page 117 of How To Not Need You

“Congratulations,” he says.

I look at him. “What for?”

“First time your kid thinks you’re an idiot. That has to be some sort of parenting milestone.” He reaches for another spring roll. “I think it means you are doing something right. Building character or what not.”

“I don’t want character. I want my daughter to look at me like I’m not a disappointment.”

“You’re not a disappointment. You’re a human who made a mistake.” Ben sets his chopsticks down. “She’ll get over it. Kids are resilient. They bounce. It’s adults who hold onto things.”

“She’s currently refusing to speak to me.”

He nods solemnly, or solemnly for Ben, which still seems to have underlying amusement at my predicament.

“Apparently I’m raising a teenager.”

We then dig in like the starved creatures we are and the room falls into companionable silence.

The abandoned pot of pasta is still sitting on the stove behind us, rapidly congealing into something I’ll probably throw away tomorrow. I should care about the waste.

I don’t.

Sweet and sour pork wins.

Somewhere between shovelling sweet and sour pork into my mouth with the kind of enthusiasm a nature documentary would describe as an animal falling upon its prey, I decide I need to talk to someone.

Which is unfortunate.

Because the only person available is Ben.

In fairness, he’s usually the person I talk to anyway. For better or worse, he’s heard every version of my life for more years than either of us would probably care to count. He knows when to take the piss, when to shut up and, occasionally, when to say something useful.

Right now, I’m hoping for the third one.

I put my fork down. “I don’t know if she’s coming back.”

Ben glances towards the hallway. “Mate, she’s in her bedroom. Give her ten minutes and she’ll be out here asking for ice cream.”

“I mean Liv.”

His fork stops halfway to his mouth. “Oh.”

Yeah. That one. I lean back in my chair and scrub a hand over my face.

“She won’t answer me. Luca said she needs space, and I know I have to give it to her, but” I look towards my phone sitting on the counter. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do with that.”

Ben lowers his fork. “Nothing.”

I stare at him. “Excellent. Glad we had this talk.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“You’re always trying to fix shit.”

“Occupational hazard.” I dismiss before I push my plate aside. “Christ, Ben, giving her space is the hardest thing I’ve done in a long time.”

He doesn’t interrupt me. For Ben, this is notable. Ben interrupts everything. Ben interrupts other people’s interruptions. The fact that he’s sitting across my table, chopsticks still, listening without a single smart comment, tells me everything about how serious this looks from the outside.