Tim Dowling: we’re low on milk … the kids must have moved back home

It is late on Saturday morning, and the oldest one and I are sitting opposite one another at the kitchen table, staring at our laptops in silence. We are silent because we are both working on the same puzzle, and neither of us wants any help from the other at this point.

The front door opens and my wife comes in, bringing with her the middle one and all his worldly possessions. Only the youngest one, the last to leave, has yet to return home, but he lives just minutes away and, like the other two, he has a key.

There was an actual point when all three of our adult children had flown the nest, when we suddenly had an embarrassment of spare rooms and a sense of unlimited possibility. Now all I can think is: it’s a good thing I didn’t buy a rowing machine.

“I guess we’re back to big milk,” I say, tipping the last of a dainty pint container into my coffee.

“Can you help us unload everything?” my wife says.

It’s not actually that much: when the middle one moved out two years ago, he had two carloads of stuff. Somehow, it’s been halved. This could be down to wear and tear, I suppose, or perhaps the other half has already migrated back over a period of months. I haven’t been concentrating.

“There are going to be some changes round here,” my wife says.

“That’s right,” I say, not entirely sure what she’s talking about.

“First, you need to let us know whether you’re in for supper every day, by midday,” she says.

“Fine,” says the middle one.

“Can’t we set up some kind of phone alert, that everyone has to answer?” she says.

“I’m sure it’s possible,” says the oldest one.

By Monday the bulk of the middle one’s stuff has been rammed into already full storage spaces, under the stairs and in the eaves. The oldest one is out all morning, viewing a flat with his girlfriend. He returns in time for lunch. We are all, it seems, working from home today.

“How was it?” my wife says, in a voice cautiously tinged with hope.

“We put an offer in,” he says.

“You’re not buying it,” she says.

This, he says, is how things work now. You can’t just grudgingly agree to pay an extortionate amount of rent and move in; you have to make an offer, and hope nobody makes a better one before the lease is signed.

“Ridiculous,’ my wife says.

“I need to know how many we are for supper tonight,” I say.

“Check the alerts,” the middle one says.

“I can’t work those,” I say.

“Look in your calendar,” he says.

“My what?” I say.

“I definitely added you to the group,” he says, tapping at the keys of his laptop.

“I get the alerts, but there’s no way to act on them,” I say.

“Here,” he says, turning the screen to face me. “You’ve already said you’re not in for supper.”

“I have not.”

“You clicked ‘No’,” he says.

“I don’t even get ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ as options,” I say. “I get ‘Close’ or ‘Snooze’. Today I chose ‘Close’.”

“Just give me your phone,” he says.

It turns out we are all in for supper, including the oldest one’s girlfriend. At about six I leave my office shed to figure out what to do about it. My wife and the oldest one are in the kitchen.

“What are we having?” I say.

“He’s cooking,” she says, pointing to the oldest one.

“Is he?” I say. “Finally, I’ve been replaced.”

I go to the shops to buy beer and a big milk for the morning. I watch TV with my wife for a while, and then wander into the kitchen, where the oldest one is preparing an elaborate stir-fry. It took me a long time to get used to cooking for two, but cooking for five suddenly looks daunting.

“A lot of food,” I say.

“Yeah,” says the oldest one. He adds more ingredients, until the huge pan he’s using starts to spill over.

“You’ve still got all this rice to go,” I say, pointing.

“I know,” he says, looking perturbed.

“You’re gonna struggle to fit all that in,” I say.

“I am struggling,” he says.

“I mean, you could probably do the rice separately,” I say.

“What?” he says.

“Get out another pan, heat some oil, some garlic, and then …”

“OK,” he says. “Can you do that?”