Page 112 of The Sound Between Us

But there’s something almost endearing about her revisionist history, the way she’s retroactively claiming credit for supporting me. She reaches over to smooth down my hair with maternal efficiency, and I find myself not pulling away for once.

The gesture catches me off guard. When did Kimba start feeling... not a mother, but something closer to it?

“I told Damon years ago that girl has something special,” she continues, warming to her theme.

Dad nods along as if this conversation actually happened, both of them rewriting family history in real time. I should be annoyed, but I’m too exhausted to fight it. Let them have their version of events. At least in their story, I was always destined for something better than alphabetising vinyl in Camden.

Mrs. Martin appears in the doorway with a roast that smells of childhood and safety, her face glowing with pride that feels entirely genuine. She’s the only person in this room whose approval I’ve ever truly craved, and seeing her beam at me makes something warm unfurl in my chest.

“Right then,” Dad says, carving the beef with theatrical flourish, “what’s next for our rising star? Album deal? Tour? Please tell me you’re not going to be one of those artists who disappears for five years between releases.”

“I’m taking it slowly,” I accept a plate piled high with Mrs. Martin’s perfect Yorkshire puddings. “Mark’s helping me figure out what I actually want to say before I say it to the world.”

“Smart,” Felix nods approvingly. “The industry’s full of people who rush into things and regret it later.”

There’s something pointed about the way he says it, his gaze flicking to Dad, who pretends not to notice. The Revelry’s early career was exactly the kind of rushed, chaotic mess that Felix is warning against.

The conversation flows around me—family gossip, industry talk, the usual Rogers family performance of being more interesting than we actually are. For once, I’m not the outsider looking in. I’m part of it, contributing, belonging.

It’s almost nice. Almost normal.

That should have been my first warning.

“Just as well things didn’t pan out with that bloke from the boyband,” Dad says, cutting through my thoughts with the casual precision of someone dropping a bomb into polite conversation. “Would have ruined your artistic credibility completely.”

The words hit the air. Everyone freezes—Kimba with her wine glass halfway to her lips, Felix with his fork suspended over his plate, even Mrs. Martin pausing in the doorway.

Oh, you absolute bastard.

I look at him across the table, this man who gave me life and music and abandonment issues in equal measure, and feel something click into place. Something that’s been building for weeks, maybe years.

“Dad,” I say, my voice deadly calm, “you ‘are’ the bloke from a boyband.”

The silence stretches for exactly three seconds before Kimba explodes into laughter—not her usual polite tinkle, but a proper belly laugh that echoes off the expensive walls and probably disturbs the neighbours three houses down.

“Oh my god,” Hailey breathes, her eyes wide with shock and what might be admiration. “She actually said it.”

Felix chokes on his wine, trying desperately not to laugh whilst Dad’s face cycles through several interesting colours. But instead of the explosion I’m expecting, he throws back his head and roars with laughter.

“Touché, treasure,” he raises his glass in salute. “Though I prefer ‘band’ to ‘boyband.’”

The relief that floods through me is almost overwhelming. I’ve been holding that comeback in for approximately twenty-five years, and it felt even better than I’d imagined.

Kimba reaches over and kisses my cheek, her lips warm and sticky with gloss. “I love you, baby,” she says, and the words hang in the air.

I love you. When was the last time someone in this family said that to me? When was the last time anyone said it and meant it?

I look around the table—at Dad, still chuckling over being called out; at Kimba, wiping tears of laughter from her perfectly made-up eyes; at Felix, raising his glass in genuine respect; even at Hailey, who’s stopped pouting long enough to look almost fond.

This is my family. They’re mental, dysfunctional, prone to dramatic outbursts and revisionist history. They’ve hurt me, disappointed me, left me feeling outside my own life.

But they love me.

It’s not perfect love, not the kind you see in movies or read about in books. It’s complicated and conditional and wrapped up in ego and performance. But it’s love nonetheless, and for the first time in years, I feel I belong somewhere.

Mrs. Martin catches my eye from the doorway and nods, as if she’s been waiting for this moment as long as I have. The woman who raised me, who taught me that families are built as much as born, finally seeing the acceptance she’s always wanted me to find.

The warmth spreads through my chest, unfamiliar and precious. This might not be normal, but it’s mine.