cider point, ma. march 16th, 2026 — 12:29pm london, england. mother's day, 2026 — 4:29pm
"Did the card arrive in time?"
His mother sighs, "Nate, it was postmarked February 3rd."
"Over 60 years of experience and you still think everything arrives on time?" He's grateful for his parents' burnt out WiFi as her scolding's muted by the stuttering of the call. "You got the flowers, too, I take it?" She'd usually have them in the vase behind her already, their tradition long set by now. He'll send a card, organised online for a bouquet — usually chrysanthemums, but sometimes he likes to shake it up — to be delivered, and then call somewhere between eleven and half past. Today, he's late.
"I did. They're in the kitchen. Your dad picked up this pig-ugly vase in a charity shop last week, so I'm hoping if I arrange them well enough, I can hide as many of its sins as possible." His father does love a charity shop buy; Nate didn't realise he was interested in vases, though. "Anyway, how come you're so late? Usually, the message I get at three o'clock is an 'I'm waiting', not a 'running behind'. When was the last time you ran late?"
Last Thursday. They'd been in his doorway when he'd asked if Theodora had her phone in case of emergency. She didn't.
"Slept in." He says instead, eyes drifting as the reason settles herself on the couch with Lucky.
"Is— Oh, thank you. See. Here they are, in your dad's new vase." The flowers are pretty. At least one of the Fletcher men has good taste.
His father pulls over his usual chair, pushing his glasses back up his nose as he appears in frame. "Hey, kid. Late today, huh?"
His mother's voice cuts in before he can repeat himself, "he slept in with his mysterious girlfriend." Nate's eyes roll.
"She can hear you, by the way." Not that he'd hesitate, his cursor already over the End Call button, if there's so much as a hint of a complaint. After the long conversations the two of them have had about Nate's upbringing since their first date, they're lucky Theodora's still happy for them to receive the small amount of faceless photos and stories of their time together that he does share.
"What your mum means to say, is that we're happy that you're happy, and take all the time you need." His father, always the levelheaded one. The older his mother has gotten, the more she's let her emotions control her. Unfortunately for him, he had to have gotten his once more dismal social skills from somewhere.
"No," Nate's fingertip hovers above the touchpad on his laptop, "well, yes, but—" She frowns. "We shouldn't have raised him to be so secretive." Nate laughs, because that's the least of his worries in the aftermath of their parenting, and because he can see Theodora very clearly listening in from across the room.
"There'll be plenty opportunities in the future for you all to meet—" He holds up a hand, already anticipating her interrupting him. "The more you complain, the longer I'm going to make you wait. I'm in no rush to come back to London, especially not right now. At least by summer, it'll only be raining five days a week, instead of all seven." He doesn't miss how Theodora's head picks up, and he already knows the barrage of questions that's awaiting him once he hangs up — which won't be long, because as they'd correctly pointed out, he's off schedule.
He's prepared again, once his mother's excuse starts to tumble out. "I just worry about you; you keep so many secrets. What if something's going on and we can't help because—"
"I'm starting to think you just find me having a beautiful, wonderful girlfriend hard to believe." His smile is a little mischievous, because he knows he's caught her in a trap. "Anyway, now that you've spent your Mother's Day as you always do, berating me even from across the globe, I have places to be, and so do you. I booked you both in at that restaurant you've been dropping really obnoxious hints about since New Years, and transferred the money, so you better go get ready or you're gonna be late."
His father's hand on her shoulder silences his wife, grin blinding. "I love Mother's Day."
