Claire Nicholls

Some people find it funny.

My father dragged a large red suitcase from the back of a cupboard.

My mother shot him a hard stare.

That's mine.

He pulled it behind his back, holding it tightly.

I was the one who paid for it.

With our money.

That I stole.

While I was carrying your child.

It went on like that.

They debated the ownership of this battered suitcase that seemed to have disproportionate sentimental value to these notoriously unsentimental creatures.

My father claimed she only liked the red suitcase because it matched her eyes.

My mother said that was a good joke, but the suitcase was mauve, not red.

Let's agree to disagree.

I never agreed to that.

My father eventually won the argument by yanking the suitcase from her hand, breathing heavily and retreating to pack.

A border had been erected between us.

We were all strangers to each other now.

I guess so.

I mean, I think that the style in which I write, which is kind of darkly humorous or, you know, dark comedy, blackly funny, whatever you, however you want to describe it, is just the kind of default style.