When I arrive home just after 10pm, I hear shouting and the clinking of glasses. This isn’t unusual, but it’s not something I could have predicted either. When I went out, everything was quiet.
Cans and bottles litter the kitchen table. My wife, the oldest one and his friend are in the middle of a lively dispute. I sit down and try to join in, but I’m having trouble following the conversation.
“So the empty set has no members,” I say, during a lull.
“The empty set is the only set with no members,” the oldest one says.
“Because every set with no members is the empty set,” I say.
“Why is that fun?” my wife says.
“You can define a function over a set, and we’ll call that set X,” the oldest one says. “And the function N of X is itself a set, which contains all the members of sets which are themselves members of X.” There is a pause while I pretend to take this in.
“I think you’re really boring,” my wife tells them.
The oldest one has just started a master’s degree in London, so he has returned home, although the nature of his tenancy is murky: some days he’s here, some days he isn’t, some days it’s hard to tell.
On Saturday I am charged with making lunch. My wife sits at the kitchen table texting the middle one at university, again.
“I think he might be missing me,” she says.
“When would he have the opportunity?” I say.
“His catered accommodation doesn’t cover weekends,” she says.
“How many am I cooking for, by the way?”
“No idea,” my wife says. “I don’t even know who’s here.”
Twenty minutes later, the youngest one comes downstairs. Fifteen minutes after that, the oldest one and his girlfriend appear.
“How convenient,” my wife says. “Turning up just as lunch is ready. Sadly there isn’t enough.”
“There’s enough,” I say. “I made a lot.”
The oldest one’s girlfriend gets out plates. The youngest one looks at what I’ve prepared and decides he’s not hungry after all. The oldest helps himself and sits down.
“How’s your catered accommodation working out for you?” my wife says.
“Fine, thanks,” he says, reaching for the pepper.
“I’ll bet it is,” she says. “This is a lovely little restaurant, isn’t it?”
“The food’s good,” he says. “The service is a bit lippy.”
That evening everyone disappears again. My wife and I sit in front of the TV, while she tries to make me join her new chat group.
“What’s it for?” I say. “Are you attempting to reassemble our fragmented family unit in a virtual environment?”
“Just accept my invitation,” she says, “and shut up.” I click Accept.
My phone buzzes. I have a message that says, “Dad is now added.” I send a message that says, “We are watching TV.” My wife’s phone pings. I get a text from the middle one, saying, “What group is this?” I get another that says, “The new one with Dad.”
I receive a notice informing me that the youngest one has left. I receive a message from my wife that says, “Does that mean temporarily or has he quit the group?”
I send a message asking where the oldest one is. My wife’s phone pings. My phone buzzes. I have a message saying, “He doesn’t have the app yet.” I receive notification that the middle one has left.
I send a message that says, “It’s clearly just you and me doing this, and we’re sitting three feet from each other.” While I wait for my wife’s phone to ping, it occurs to me that our family settings have more or less been restored.
