Marshmallow Mountains and Quiet Words

"No, *my* marshmallow is bigger," Patricia said, nudging her mug closer to Jacob’s. Steam curled up, smelling sweet and a bit like cocoa dust and something else, something warm, almost like a hug. Outside, the world was just grey smudges against the kitchen window. Snow kept falling, lazy, big flakes that stuck to the glass, melting into tiny rivulets before freezing again. Jacob just blew at his. He was ten, big for his age, with messy brown hair that always flopped over his eyes.

"It’s not a race, Pip," he mumbled, but he still sucked his marshmallow in fast, a loud slurp that made Patricia giggle. A little bit of chocolate got on his chin, a dark smudge. He didn't even notice. He was focused on the window now, tapping his fingers on the cool glass.

Patricia loved the quiet mornings like this, when Mum was still asleep, and Dad was usually in his little study down the hall, tapping away on his computer. She’d come down in her fluffy rabbit pyjamas, Jacob would already be there, and they'd make hot chocolate, extra marshmallows, just for them. Their secret club. The scent of it was like a blanket against the cold that seeped through the windowpanes, a deep, steady chill that made her toes curl inside her thick wool socks, even with the central heating groaning to life somewhere in the floorboards. It was the best kind of quiet, the safe kind.

Then Mum came in. Her footsteps were light, but Patricia heard them, always. She smelled of sleep and something flowery, like the soap she used. Patricia swivelled on her chair, her knees knocking the table leg. The mug rattled a bit. Mum wasn’t smiling her full morning smile, the one that reached her eyes. This one was a bit smaller, tighter, like a ribbon pulled too snug.

"Morning, you two," Mum said, her voice a little gravelly, like she hadn't quite woken up yet. She went straight to the kettle, not even looking at their mugs. Patricia watched her back, the way her shoulders seemed a bit hunched. Jacob stopped tapping on the window. He looked at Patricia, then quickly down at his mug, like he was caught doing something bad, even though he wasn't. Just looking.

"Snowing still," Jacob said, his voice trying to sound casual, like he said it every day. Mum didn't answer right away. The kettle hissed, a high, thin sound. Patricia hated that sound. It always felt like it was hiding other noises, making them wait.

Mum poured her tea, a single teabag, no milk. Just dark, plain tea. She sat down opposite them, her hands wrapped around the mug. Her fingers looked thin, almost see-through in the grey light. She didn't say anything for a long time, just stared out the window, past the flakes clinging to the glass, at the endless grey beyond.

Patricia sipped her hot chocolate. It was getting cooler now, a thin skin forming on the top where the marshmallows had been. The sweetness was comforting, a small shield. She looked at Jacob, who was drawing shapes on the steamed-up window with his finger. A square. A wonky circle. He didn't look at Mum. Patricia knew why. Sometimes, when Mum looked like this, it felt like a silent instruction: *don't look at me, don't ask anything*.

"Your father…" Mum started, then stopped. She cleared her throat. It sounded dry. "He’s on a call. Important one." Patricia looked at the study door down the hall. It was closed, like always when Dad was working. She could hear the faint murmur of his voice, a low rumble, but couldn't make out words. It was like a far-off storm. You knew it was coming, but you couldn't tell if it would hit your house.

The Quiet Call

"I heard him on the phone last night," Jacob said, surprising Patricia. His voice was low, almost a whisper, like he was telling a secret. "He was talking about... papers. And a lawyer." Mum’s head snapped up. Her eyes, usually soft and brown, were sharp now. Like broken glass, Patricia thought. That was a scary thought. She tried to push it away, deep down where the hot chocolate warmth could reach it.

"Jacob," Mum said. Her voice was too calm. Too quiet. Mum's voice got like that sometimes. A sort of... sharp quiet. Like a knife hiding in a soft blanket. Patricia didn't like it. She liked Mum's regular voice, the one that sang silly songs when they did dishes. "That's not your concern." Her knuckles were white where she gripped her mug.

Jacob just shrugged, a big, clumsy thing, but he didn't look away from Mum's eyes. "It sounded… loud. And he sounded mad." Patricia saw Mum’s jaw clench, just a little. A tiny movement. But Patricia saw it. She always saw the tiny things. The way Mum’s eye twitched sometimes when she was thinking hard. The way Dad’s foot tapped a fast rhythm when he was upset.

"He's just stressed, sweetie," Mum said. The word 'sweetie' felt stretched thin, like an old rubber band. "Work. That’s all. Grown-up things." She glanced at Patricia, then back at Jacob. "Don’t worry your head about it." But her eyes kept flicking to the study door, like she expected it to burst open, like something big and heavy would come out.

Patricia stirred her almost-empty mug. The spoon scraped, a quiet, metallic sound. Grown-up things. That’s what they always said. But grown-up things felt like a heavy coat, something too big for her to wear, but it was there, draped over everything, making the air feel thick and hard to breathe. She wondered if Mum felt it too. The heavy coat.

Dad finally came in. The sound of the study door opening was loud, a solid *thud* against the quiet. He walked into the kitchen, his shoulders broader than Mum's, his hair a bit ruffled. He wore a thick blue jumper, his 'work-from-home' jumper. He always looked tired these days, even in his comfy clothes. He didn't say morning, just went straight to the coffee machine, the electric burr grinder whirring to life, loud and aggressive. It made Patricia jump a bit, spilling a tiny drop of chocolate on the polished quartz countertop.

"Morning, Dad," Jacob said, his voice a bit higher than before. Dad grunted, a soft, deep sound, almost like a bear waking up. He didn't look at them, just at the coffee dripping into the pot, a slow, dark stream. The smell of coffee was strong, bitter, pushing away the last traces of hot chocolate sweetness. Patricia hated the coffee smell. It always meant Dad was in his serious mode.

Mum cleared her throat again. "Still snowing, darling. Hard." Dad nodded, still not looking at anyone. His profile was sharp, outlined against the white of the window. His chin was set firm. Patricia remembered that chin. It meant he was thinking about something big, something that made him frown even when he wasn’t frowning.

"Right," Dad said. His voice was low, flat. "Listen, I spoke with Mr. Jenkins. He’s going to… finalise everything this week. The papers. The arrangements." He paused, taking a long, slow breath. The silence in the kitchen felt heavy, like a wet blanket. It pressed down on Patricia, making her shoulders ache. She looked at Mum. Mum’s face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t look at Dad.

"Finalise what?" Jacob asked, his voice suddenly small. He looked confused, his brow furrowed, a tiny worried line between his eyebrows. Patricia felt confused too. What papers? What arrangements? It sounded like something important, but also like something that was wrong. Like when Mum said they were ‘finalising’ the broken toaster and they never got a new one. It meant it was gone. Forever gone.

The Snow Fort Distraction

Dad finally looked at them, a quick, darting glance. His eyes were dark. "Just… some house things, mate. Boring grown-up stuff. Taxes. Legalese." He said the word 'legalese' like it was something yucky. "Don’t worry about it." He didn't smile. Not even a small one. He reached for his coffee mug, his hand shaking just a tiny bit, so tiny Patricia almost didn't see it.

"Oh." Jacob still looked puzzled. Patricia felt a shiver, not from the cold from the window, but from something inside. It was a cold that hot chocolate couldn't fix. She wanted to ask what 'house things' meant. Did it mean their house? Their house was her house. It was safe. Mostly.

Mum finally spoke. Her voice was soft, but it sounded… worn. "I’m going to go get ready, then. We should probably pop out, get some fresh air. Before it gets too deep." She stood up, pushing her chair back with a soft scrape. She still didn't look at Dad, but she put a hand on Jacob’s shoulder as she passed, a light squeeze. Then her fingers brushed Patricia's hair, so quick, so light, Patricia almost thought she imagined it. It felt like a promise, whispered and fragile, that everything would be okay.

Dad didn't say anything. He just stirred his coffee, the spoon clinking against the ceramic. It was a rhythmic sound, like a broken clock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Patricia felt her stomach clench. Her hot chocolate was completely cold now. It tasted like nothing.

Jacob suddenly clapped his hands together, a loud, startling sound. "Hey, Pip! Let’s build the biggest snow fort ever! Like, bigger than last year’s. A fortress!" His eyes were bright now, a desperate, hopeful kind of bright. He was trying to make things better. Patricia knew that. She always knew when Jacob was trying. He wanted to fix the quiet. He wanted to push away the heavy coat.

Patricia looked at Jacob. Then she looked at Mum, who was now at the kitchen door, paused, one hand on the frame. Mum gave them a small, tired smile. It was a fragile thing, but it was there. "Yes," Mum said, her voice a little stronger. "That's a lovely idea, Jacob. Go on then. Get yourselves ready." She didn't look at Dad. Not once. She just looked at them, at Patricia and Jacob, and her smile, though tired, held a sliver of that hopeful promise.

Jacob jumped up, his chair scraping loudly, a much bigger sound than Mum's. He grabbed Patricia’s hand. His fingers were warm, solid. "Come on! We need our warmest stuff. And lots of snowballs!" He pulled her, and Patricia almost tripped, her rabbit slippers catching on the floor rug. She stumbled, a bit clumsy, but Jacob just laughed, a real, full sound, and pulled her along. The cold from the window seemed to shrink a bit, just for a moment.

As Jacob pulled her out of the kitchen, Patricia risked a glance back. Dad was still at the counter, his back to them, just staring at the coffee machine. The whirring had stopped. Now there was only the drip, drip, drip of the last few drops of coffee. Mum was gone from the doorway. The kitchen was quiet again, but it felt different now. Not the safe quiet. It felt... empty. Like something had been taken out, and the air hadn't quite filled the space yet. A strange, metallic smell, like a really old coin, seemed to hang in the air, pushing out the last traces of hot chocolate. She squeezed Jacob’s hand. He squeezed back.

Patricia curled her toes inside her socks, the warmth of the mug not quite reaching the strange, cold knot that had tightened in her stomach. She knew, with a certainty that made her throat feel thick, that everything was not okay, not really.