The next morning, I hadn't slept at all. Thinking about random occurrences; some from years ago, others from a week ago. I decided getting out of bed at around 9 o'clock would be safe enough for Dad not to be suspicious. Knowing Father, Dad was most likely unaware that I had stayed up past my 'bedtime.' I'm not saying Dad wouldn't find out anyway, of course. I walked down stairs as quietly as I could manage, as to not make it obvious I was awake. I walked into the living room to see Dad reading the newspaper in his chair. Father still asleep I noted, somewhat on default. I sat on the sofa, just in Dad's line of sight.
'Morning. Did you sleep well?' he asked, as I knew he would.
'Um... Not really,' I replied, grabbing my book from the coffee table, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie.
'Did you sleep at all?' he asked, looking at me.
'No...,' I said, averting his eyes. 'Too much on my mind.'
My dad sighed, 'Blame your father, then.' I chuckled and he followed two seconds after, like he needed my approval first. He did this a lot, almost as a form of respect.
'Is he still sleeping?' I asked, even though I knew the answer.
Dad nodded, 'He went to bed around 1:30. Had to finish an experiment, he said. He might be awake, for all I know, but he hasn't left our room yet.'
I set my book down on the coffee table again, and walked through the kitchen to get to my parents' room. Father was staring up at the ceiling, completely awake. I watched him for a moment before he spoke up.
'Morning,' he said, pulling the covers off and sitting up. He was wearing his blue pajamas, as he always did around the house.
'Morning. Dad was waiting to make breakfast until you got up,' I responded, leaning against the doorway.
'He's wasting his time, I'm not hungry,' he said, standing up and putting on his blue dressing gown.
I chuckled, 'Thought so.' I walked back into the living room with Father following me.
'Morning,' Father said, kissing Dad on the forehead and sitting across from him. I grabbed my book again and opened it to my bookmarked spot. Dad and Father were kind of just staring at each other whilst having their laptop (Father) and newspaper (Dad), and I would've felt uncomfortable if they didn't do this all. The. Bloody. Time. You see, my parents work like this: They are both quite sophisticated and orderly most of the time, except when Father is on a case and he takes on this completely buisness-like temperament. But, when Father has no work and the three of us are just sitting around, the two of them become the most obnoxiously romantic and sweet people in the entire country to one another, and they aren't shy when it comes to me being around to see it. I caught them one day just kissing playfully in the kitchen whilst Dad was making dinner. I sighed and left the room. This particular day, they literally defined the phrase 'eye contact' for me, and that wasn't something I needed to have defined.
To avoid awkwardness, I stared down at my book. Chapter 22. I finish books so quickly that Dad has just set 20 pound notes around the house for me to find in order to buy myself new books. One day, I wanted to buy the Harry Potter series, and I was so keen on it that I ended up finding £100 in one day, before heading out to the bookstore. It's much more of a challenge when Father hides them, but he always tells Dad to do it because I think Father secretly wants me to read as much as I do, despite his hatred for novels. He doesn't say this, as he pretends that he is more interested in experiments than hiding money for my amusement.
Out of what seemed to be nowhere, Dad asked, 'Either of you hungry? I can make breakfast.' To which Father replied with, 'No.'
Dad sighed slightly and looked at me. I nodded, 'Starving.' Dad looked slightly glad that I had an appetite, since I ate very irregularly. He then walked into the kitchen to prepare breakfast, leaving Father and I in silence. He was typing up what appeared to be an email and I continued to read my book on the sofa.
After a few moments of silence throughout the entire flat, Father turned to me, simultaneously shutting his laptop.
'What is it?' I asked, looking up slightly from my book.
He sighed, 'Jesse, there is something you need to know.' I was confused instantly.
'What do I need to know that I don't already?' I shot back, scared of what he was going to say.
He looked over to Dad for a moment, who was leaning against the doorway. Something I didn't realise that I do exactly the same.
'Your father and I are having another kid,' Dad said, looking over at Father.
What. The. Hell. I quickly made an attempt to collect my thoughts, 'What?!' That was all I could muster together.
'We're going to get another surrogate mother and have another child. You're going to have a younger sibling, isn't that exciting?' Dad responded.
'Well, sure, I guess. But, when did this idea even begin to come about?' I was trying to sound nicer about it, but there wasn't much to do when your parents throw something like this at you.
'We've been talking about it for about 10 months now. It wasn't something we just thought of out-of-nowhere,' Father tried to comfort the situation, noticing that I was flustered.
'I-I don't know what to say. Why now? Dad is finally recovered after what happened and now you're just going to make it more complicated?!' I stood up, angry at how calmly my parents were taking the situation.
'Jesse, we-' Dad tried to walk over and comfort me, but I pushed away.
'Why are you doing this to yourselves?! Dad still gets nightmares of when Father was gone! You have to stare at eachother just to know that the other is still there. Do you really think that you should bring another child-no-baby into this?!' I was raising my voice. The second after I said what I did, I regretted it, but I wasn't apologising at that moment.
Dad and Father stayed silent, staring at me with wide eyes. I was born a year and a half after Father came back from faking his death, and even 16 years later, Dad wasn't completely mended. I stormed up to my room and my parents just watched me. Maybe I overreacted, but at that moment I stopped analyzing my every word, and I just shoved my face into my pillow after slamming my door.