Two Versions of the Kitchen

The estate agent asked Julia to describe her childhood home for the sales brochure. She mentioned warm bread, noisy Sundays and the yellow kitchen where everyone gathered. Her brother, seated beside her, looked towards the window. When the agent left, he asked whose house she had been describing with such impressive confidence and so few doubts.

He remembered cold dinners and their mother's long silences after work. Julia almost accused him of exaggerating. Then she noticed that the kitchen tiles, which she remembered as yellow, were actually cream. Perhaps they had been replaced. Her brother said they had not. Neither wanted to turn the final afternoon in the house into an argument about paint.

While emptying a drawer, they found a photograph of a Sunday lunch. Julia saw evidence of happiness: a crowded table, their mother's smile. Her brother pointed to the clock. Their father had already left for another shift, although Julia had confidently remembered him carving the meat. She turned the picture over, hoping a date might settle something.

There was no date. They sent the agent a description of the rooms, their sizes and the south-facing windows. Julia kept the photograph after asking her brother whether he wanted a copy. He said yes. She was surprised, but did not demand an explanation. They could both want the same picture without needing it to prove the same thing about home.