The Folded Shirt

Tressa was carrying a basket of clean washing when Selwyn asked whether Elian had told her about the application.

“What application?”

She set the basket on the floor. Her son stood just inside the back door with the bowl she had sent him home with months ago. He had telephoned to ask whether he could drop it round on his way to work. She had thought that was what he was doing.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Selwyn.”

“I mean, that answers it.”

He put the bowl on the table. It made a harder sound than he intended. She could see him regretting the visit and, behind that, the question he had come to ask.

“Do you want to sit down?”

“I haven’t got long.”

“Then stand. But don’t say something and expect me to unknow it when you change your mind.”

The edge in her voice surprised them both. She had…