The kettle sounded from the kitchen, tightening the small space in the living room, collapsing the walls in on itself.

I heard it raining, but we hadn’t pulled the blinds up yet. It would only serve to make a depressing scene even worse.

I remember looking up at Jess.

She looked at Destiny, sleeping in the cot next to the TV, blissfully unaware of the suffocating silence.

A random soap opera played on it.

The kettle clicked off.

The walls stopped caving in as someone made an attempt to expand the collapsed silence with words.

“I’ll make it,” Cara said. “Jess, d’you take milk? Sugar?”

I remember thinking, God, we don’t even know how to make tea for the woman.

“Just milk‘s fine, Cara,” Dad answered for her. Then he looked straight at me. “Go help your sister.” He acted like making tea was a two person job.

I got his hint, and followed Cara into the kitchen.

On my way out, I looked at Jess again. Her throat bulged, like she was trying not to cry.

Dad put his hand on her shoulder, and I looked away, like I’d seen something obscene.

It wasn’t though, was it?

She’d just lost her niece, hadn’t she?

Cara poured the milk by the time I got there.

“I’ve already made it, Aiden,” She said simply, handing me the chipped Man City mug meant for Jess.

I looked in the sink. There was one spoon in there, milky tea pooled in its centre, yes, but no sugar crystals lying around it.

“No you haven’t. Dad and I take sugar, remember?”

“You can add your sugar,” She nodded towards the pot next to the kettle. “Dad said just milk, didn’t he?” She wrapped her hands around her mug, leaning back against the countertop. She took a sip, even if it was too hot to drink.

“I’m sure he was talking for Jess. He always takes sugar,” I protested.

“Alright, then. Add the sugar.” Cara shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.” She took Jess’ mug from me and carried both their tea out, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

I took a clean spoon out of the drawer, digging it into the sugar. One for Dad, two for me.

Mum always used to say that it was an awful habit to get into, having two full teaspoons of sugar in something we drink so often. I never listened to her.

The teaspoon clinked against the mug as I stirred it in.

I sighed, spoon still clinking against Dad’s mug.

I throw it into the sink, sugar crystals surrounded by rings of milky brown in the metal.

Then I just stared at the clock for ten minutes. I didn’t want to go back into the living room, not when grief was hanging heavy over it.

I opened my phone to text my friends that I would be in England for however long while the funeral happens. I put off texting Drew, just because I wasn’t prepared for the inevitable overwhelm of heart emoji’s and smiley faces he’d send.

I brought my own tea to my lips.

It was cold.

She rushed in, head tilted to keep her phone next to her ear while she struggled with the lighter.

“Aiden, hi,” she said. “I’m gonna call my brother.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” I said, not sure if I should’ve said something about Niamh herself. “You gonna have a smoke?” I asked, staring at the lighter in her hand, the cigarette held between her teeth.

“I was, but if you wanna hang out here, it’s fine. Sorry; I can go outside. Should do that, anyways.” She’s fully aware of the fact that Cara’s asthmatic, but always overly apologetic.

I can never truly hate her, even if I really should.

I opened the kitchen curtains. There was, in fact, torrential Irish downpour.

I didn’t care who she was; I was not letting her stand in the bucketing rain while she called her newly childless brother.

“No, it’s fine. I can go.” I poured my cold tea down the sink, and shut the door on my way out.

It closed louder than I wanted, making it seem like I had slammed it.

I hadn’t.

I gave Dad his tea.

He didn’t want sugar anyways.

He still drank it.