We wanted him in the living room, but he is too busy exchanging memes.
I hear strains of the mature laughter that has replaced childhood’s irrepressible giggle.
‘Is he joining us?’ his father asks.
‘I know they all think parents are toxic, but self-isolation seems a bit extreme,’ he grumbles.
I mute the news. There is no serenity in that transmission.
‘It’s our job to make him separate from us,’ I smile, folding into him on the sofa.
I allow the thought that we will survive it to drift quietly through my mind.