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“We should choose it together, our family home,” I say.

Jack looks at me.

“Clearly, yes. That was the plan.”

“I need light.”

“I know.”

“Proper studio light.”

“I know.”

“Space for huge canvases.”

“Already factored in.”

“And colour.”

Jack grimaces.

“Within reason.”

“No! Me and Bryce love colour. Art. Lots of it.”

He laughs. “All right, yes. Lots of colour. Big shitty canvases and garbage sculptures on the lawn if you really want to ruin it.”

“Red,” I say.

“Purple,” Bryce adds.

We both look at Jack.

He lifts his champagne glass.

“Yellow. Yes. Lots of yellow. Thank fuck, we have our yellow again.”

We clink our glasses together again, then something occurs to me.

I jump from my stool and hurry towards the suitcase beside the door.

My chipped mug is still wrapped in a tea towel. The mug Jack used to hate, but tried to forbid me from taking.

I carry it back into the kitchen and place it on the marble island.

Jack looks at it.

Bryce smiles.

“I nearly left it at Mum and Dad’s,” I say. “But it was the only thing in that house that felt like mine.”

Jack picks it up.

He turns it carefully in his hands, taking in the chipped rim and faded paint.

“It never belonged there.”

My chest tightens when he gets up and opens the cupboard, putting it right back where it belongs. The space was still empty. Unfilled.