The January cold is tapping at the windows and leaking through the cracks of the door frames as the sun traces a lazy arc across the sky. I can hear Morgan and the babies from the living room, the sound of soft laughter spilling into the edge of the cramped kitchen. Mum has taken control of the stovetop, the smell of lobster and fresh soup hanging in the air as her small frame flitters between pans. I stand with my younger sister at the table crammed into the room at an odd angle.
I take another scoop of filling and pleat the edges of the dumpling wrapper with my thumb. The dough is as soft as baby skin as I place it on the tray.
Marcus, Morgan’s husband, stoops into the room to swipe a tangerine from one of the bowls in the corner, smiling at us. “It smells great in here,” he comments before fleeing back to his family.
It is not his fault, the burning jealousy that churns in my stomach at the sight of him. Not of his life or position, but of the ease in which Marcus integrated into the family. It would never be that easy for my lovers to find a home here.
Laura sends me a pitiful look from over the bowl of filling, the air fresh with herbs and spices. Her best friend, Ellie, sits at her side, red button down matching her orange hair and flaming freckled cheeks.
Before I arrived, I had kissed Sarah goodbye at the corner of Portland street, trudging past the restaurants, banks, and markets, away from the heart of the city and into the clutches of my family.
The fibres of my red jumper bite into the flesh of my waist like hungry gnats. There is a buzz from the back pocket of my jeans as I pinch another dumpling into shape. I crack my neck and sigh through my nose.
Ellie ducks her head to whisper into Laura’s ear as I place the dumpling onto the tray. Laura giggles, mirth spilling from her mouth and sleek black hair falling over her eyes. They dissolve into a half murmured conversation, their bright laughter concealed behind small hands. I should chide them, slacking in their job of rolling the dough into wrappers, but I am also behind without Morgan’s deft hands beside me.
There is a hurried knock at the front door.
Laura stands and stretches out her thin frame as Marcus’s voice calls from the other end of the hall.
“I’ve got it!”
There is the sound of the creaking door opening and Dad making his way inside. The last breeze of winter flurries through the living room and disrupts the lanterns and signs for luck stuck to the gilded wallpaper. The babies cry out from the disruption and Mum drops the ladle into a dish on the counter, directing her rapid fire Mandarin at her husband. Adult voices shush the babies as they whine and whimper. Laura grabs Ellie’s arm, tugging her away from the kitchen in the moment of chaos. They scurry away with sweets bulging from their pockets and skinny arms clutching to each other.
I set down the dumpling I was shaping and run my hands under the cold sink. Sitting in one of the crooked wooden chairs, I fish my phone from my jeans. There is a message from Sarah, half hidden by the jagged cracks running across the display.
You left your glasses at mine. Want me to bring them?
“Fuck,” I sigh, leaning back into the chair with boneless limbs and aching eyes. I look up at the popcorn ceiling and push at the ache growing from the edge of my temples. There is a laugh from the living room, a warm masculine sound that reverberates through the walls. My mind wanders back to the fictitious image of Sarah inside this house, a fanciful dream. I want her to belong here the way Marcus does, some missing piece of the family.
I can hear the shuffle of Grandad’s slippered footsteps against the carpet and I look up to see him peering in at the kitchen door, assessing the state of the half cooked feast bubbling and steaming around me.
“Yeye,” I say, voice dull.
“Ah,” he sighs, pushing the chairs back in as he passes where my younger sister’s abandoned seat. He turns the hob to a lower temperature and pats me on the head with his wrinkled hands, cool and sturdy. “All alone?” he asks, taking a tangerine for himself, peeling it with a gentle tremble.
I hum, watching him lower into the chair beside me, legs crossed and eyes trained on the tangerine.
“You know, I would like you to be happy.” He turns his eyes on me, glassy and greying at the edges. “Any way you can.”
My heart stutters as the wind whirls through the side streets, a howling song. “Really?” I ask, picking at the dried filling stuck to the edge of my jeans.
“Of course,” he says, placing an orange segment in his own mouth before offering one to me. There is a twinkle in his cloudy eye. I take it from him with cold hands and suck on the tart flavour as he continues. “Family is a precious thing, my darling.”
I can feel my ears redden as I duck my head. “Thank you, Yeye.” I watch him place the ribbon of tangerine rind on the table, chewing through the fruit one segment at a time.
Returning to my phone, I flick the screen open with my thumb and enter a response.
Come over with them. Wear red. I love you.
When I look up, he is done with the tangerine, eyes bright and wandering. I stand and offer my arm, which he takes with a gentle smile. We turn out into the living room and find Dad sitting in one of the chairs, eyes intent on the television as a sports game plays on mute. Mum is sitting at the edge of the carpet with Morgan, propping a baby up and encouraging her to reach out to her grandma. As we come shuffling into the room, the two women look up at us and Mum groans as she hurries to stand, muttering about the food. The smaller baby is swaddled in Marcus’s arms, babbling round face blinking up at him while her twin lets out a giggling gurgle. I help set Grandad on the couch before moving to the other side of the room, the morning sun at my back.
When the twins are closer to sleep, the ringing of the doorbell startles them. There is a half shout from further into the house and Marcus jolts on the padded floor, the children stretching and kicking in their parents’ arms.
Before I can lurch off of the chair, there is a shout from the stairs. “I’ll get it!” Laura calls, catapulting down the stairs three at a time, Ellie hot on her heels. The door creaks open once again, accompanied by Laura’s chipper voice. “Yu residence, how can we help you?”
I can see a sliver of the exchange through the open door of the living room. Laura’s red hoodie and butterfly leggings shift as she moves from foot to foot in the cold.
“Is Jenna home?” Sarah’s quiet voice asks, her south London accent evident.
“Oh, she’s pretty,” says Ellie, clutching at Laura’s side.
“Who is it?” Dad asks, eyes fixed on the television.
“She says she’s here for Jenna!”
I stand, catching Grandad’s eye over the mug of tea that found its way into his hands. Laura steps out of the way and I am greeted by Sarah biting at her bottom lip. Her brown face is framed by darker braids and she is wrapped in maroon layers of hats, scarves, and jackets, my own red silk shirt poking out beneath her coat. The sun is glinting off the frosted roofs and cars across the street as she lets out a breath in the icy air.
“Hey,” she says, mouth forming a hesitant smile.
“Hi,” I reply. “Do you want to come inside?”
