After breakfast, Jimmy dragged Thomas outside for a backyard football match, the kind that always started half-serious and ended in laughter. The grass was still damp from morning dew, and Lola was warm and drowsy in my lap as I watched from a wicker chair on the patio. Mom sat nearby, her knees propped up on a little cushion, scorecard balanced on her thigh, pencil tapping against her chin like a judge at a village fair.
"That's three-nil!" Jimmy shouted, breathless, hair sticking to his forehead. "You sure you played football at school, Dad?"
Thomas was bent forward, hands on his knees, chest heaving.
"I did!" he panted, waving an accusatory hand toward me. "But your mum distracted me. It's not fair."
I laughed, shading my eyes from the sun.
"Don't blame me because you run like an old Labrador."
"Old Labrador? That's generous," Dad chimed in, "More like a limping duck with two left feet."
Jimmy collapsed onto the grass, wheezing with laughter, rolling from side to side like he couldn't quite believe his luck at hearing adults roast each other so freely. Even Thomas, catching his breath, had to grin at that.
"Traitors," he muttered. Mom called out the new score, voice warm and amused.
"Alright, Thomas: zero. Jimmy: three, and style points deducted for blaming your wife."
"Style points?" Thomas repeated, half laughing. "I've been playing in jeans! Cut me some slack!"
"Next time wear shorts, city boy," Dad shot back, flipping a skewer of peppers. "Or better yet, just referee and let the kid keep his dignity."
"You mean my dignity," Thomas corrected, chuckling.
Jimmy jumped to his feet, ball tucked under one arm, and pointed at Thomas dramatically.
"Last chance, Dad! Loser does the dishes after dinner!"
Thomas raised both brows, wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist.
"Deal. But if I win, you clean Alice's high chair for a week."
Jimmy made a face that was half horror, half challenge.
"Deal!"
I took Lola to have her nap. Around us, the afternoon sun turned the lawn gold, and laughter spilled over the fence like something too generous to stay contained. For a moment, just sitting there, baby warm in my arms, the smell of grilled burgers in the air, and the sound of Thomas's laughter mixing with Jimmy's, it felt like the simplest, most miraculous kind of peace.
Later, after the football match ended in Jimmy's triumph and Thomas's mock despair, we all drifted back inside. Dad took command of the kitchen, wrestling a pile of shiny apples on the cutting board. Every few seconds, a piece slipped out from under the knife, skittering across the counter like it had a life of its own.
"Bloody thing," Dad muttered under his breath, retrieving another slice with stubborn dignity. "If fruit had any manners, I'd be done by now."
Thomas wiped his hands on a dish towel, then picked up one of the better-looking slices Dad had managed to tame. He held it out to me with a small, tentative grin.
"Peace offering," he said softly, eyes searching mine. "It's sweeter than it looks." I raised an eyebrow, unable to stop the smile tugging at my lips.
"If you two are going to flirt," he deadpanned, "at least do it where the bloody tea won't boil over."
Mom clucked her tongue at him, but she couldn't quite hide the curve of her mouth.
"Joseph, hush," she scolded gently. "Leave them be."