Amuse bouche... Separated Dad

Colm put the pot of carbonara in the middle of the table.

“Is that pasta?” asked Grace. “Yes,” said Colm. “We don’t eat pasta,” Grace said.

“Since when?” Colm asked, looking from his admonishing 13-year-old daughter to his only slightly apologetic 10-year-old son.

Neither of his children had an answer, but Colm could guess.

“Do you eat pasta at home, when Mum makes it?” Colm asked.

Andrew answered that Mum didn’t make it any more. She didn’t cook empty carbs much any more, Andrew said.

She was off gluten, Grace interrupted. And she’d had her hair cut, Andrew added.

“We don’t really eat garlic bread any more, either,” said Grace.

Why Grace hadn’t told Colm this when she saw him making it from scratch and putting it in the oven, he didn’t understand. Or maybe he did.

It was the first time that Grace and Andrew had eaten in Colm’s new flat. Since he and their mother had split up, it had been eating out all the time, while he found somewhere proper to live. Where he could cook for them and make a sort of second home for them.

Jesus, he didn’t even know what they ate any more. Their mother would probably argue that he’d never known; that dinners and breakfasts and school lunches had always been her department, but it looked like he was going to get a crash course.

Colm only had sliced pan for their lunches, he suddenly realised. And it was snow white. He could already anticipate Grace’s disapproval.

When had she turned into a mini adult with dietary requirements, and when had Colm’s ex decided to give her a proper smartphone without his permission? The Nokia brick had been perfect for keeping track of her movements.

Grace now had her selfie face perfected, he had noticed, while she took photos of herself around his flat. She was a bit disgusted that she and Andrew were sharing.

“Would you manage it this once?” asked Colm, gesturing at the dinner.

Andrew looked up in fright when Colm’s voice cracked mid-sentence. Even Grace looked less irritated for a split second. Andrew picked up his fork; but his sister did not.

“I can’t be bloated for the weekend,” she said, typing into her phone on her lap. Colm hoped to God she wasn’t giving her mother a blow-by-blow account.

“We can go food shopping together next time,” he said.

Both children rolled their eyes.