Free The Dr Pepper Prophecies by Jennifer Gilby Roberts

earn.'
    I’m so much better off than Beth really.  My whole family live nearby, I still get to visit the house I grew up in and my parents barely even fight.  I’m lucky, I really am.
    'Don’t be,' Beth says, looking worried. 'Not everyone gets on with their family.  Don’t feel bad.  I made pavlova for dessert.'
    I immediately feel better.  Sometimes I think I should w orry about my using sugar like Prozac.  Then I decide it could actually be Prozac that I’m addicted to.  If sugar were that serious, surely it would only be available on prescription?
    'Thank,' I say gratefully. 'Let’s stop talking about families now.'
     
    **
     
    As the crow flies or, more realistically down here in the south, the pigeon, it’s really not that far to my parents’ house.  The bus journey, however, is an absolute bitch.  Three different buses and nearly two hours to go fifteen miles.  And they wonder why more people don’t use public transport.
    As I walk slowly down the road, getting nearer and nearer to my ex-home, the semi-detached, brick doll’s house that I spent eighteen years in before I went off to university, the Earth’s gravity seems to get stronger and stronger.  It’s harder and harder to keep picking my feet up.  And the desire to spin round and run home grows.
    I picture seeing the house again.  The spring daffodils and tulips.  The bed of primroses in the shape of a wonky cross.  My dad found religion at the same time as he discovered the joy of gardening, mainly because the local vicar is in the club with him.
    Before I’m ready, I arrive.  I stare at the place I used to call home. The paint work has been redone.  The gate doesn’t squeak when I open it.  Weird.
    At the door I take a deep breath and ring the doorbell.
    This time I’m greeted by my nephew, James.  He’s two months old and this is the first time I’ve seen him, due to many good reasons – okay, excuses – why I couldn’t visit before now.  His face is bright red and he’s screaming his head off.  I know exactly how he feels.
    Attached to him is his slave and milk-dispenser.  If I were her, I’d have gone on strike.
    Super mum, God forbid, actually looks slightly stressed, although she rearranges her features very quickly when she sees me.
    'Wind,' she says, smiling at the scarlet blob as if perforated eardrums are only to be expected. 'How lovely to see you.  James is thrilled to meet his Aunty Melanie, aren’t you?' she coos.
    God, how does he greet the ones he doesn’t like?  Projectile vomiting probably.
    Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not that I don’t like children.  I may even want to have one or two of my own someday.  It’s just that I prefer them asleep.  Or making cute noises like they do in adverts on TV.  Not acting like they could star in another re-make of The Omen .  Is that so very unreasonable?
    I’m ushered through to the sitting room.  It’s too late to escape.  I’m stuck here, in the torture chamber.
    Family bonds are sacred.  Family bonds are sacred.
    Who am I kidding?  How long until this is over?
    I glance at my watch.  It’s 12 o’clock.  Minimum four hours.  What was I thinking?
    Wow!  The room’s all been done up.  It looks amazing.  New creamy wallpaper, curtains with this funky gold writing all over them.  A strange, but nice, coffee table with curved legs.  I love it.
    'Hello, darling,' my mum says softly, coming over to me.  I hug her.  My mum’s by far the best of the family, in that I think she actually likes me.
    'Hi mum,' I say. 'The house looks great.'
    Two little spots like pink Smarties appear on my mum’s cheekbones. 'Thank you,' she says, embarrassed. 'How was the journey?'
    'Okay,' I say, looking round the room again as I put my bag down on a chair. 'Buses were running on time for once, thank God.'
    'There’ll be no blasphemy in this house, thank you,' a voice much louder and stronger than my mum’s says from one of the armchairs.
    My d ad.