"Well, my wet slab of pretty beef," He began with his meat pet names. She always hated those. Which made him adore them. "My dads death hasn't exactly lived up to its non-suspicious nature. In fact, they're saying it's highly suspicious. They're investigating. They're doing an autopsy and she texted me about it." Yes, as in didn't call, but texted. He was sure she'd chosen this method with which to let him know the details merely because it was likely she unable to SAY the words over the phone without crying.
Honestly, he was glad she'd spared him the sound of that. He didn't like hearing his mother weep.
"I don't want to talk about it." Came the almost predictable, male-avoidance ritual of habitually running across the hot coals of his 'feelings'. The words were also drawled; pronounced as plainly as possible to emphasize that he was gravely serious. If she brought it up, he'd be pissed. Like, livid throwing shit pissed. In fact, he was already pissed thinking about the idea of her bringing it up to piss him off. And thus, took it out on carrying her stupid bag almost effortlessly and toward the door of P3. Making it a few paces ahead of her.
Putting her things down gently since he knew women had assortments of delicate wares, he gathered his keys from his pocket and thrust it inside the lock seamlessly. He was keeping uncharacteristically quiet... probably at the mention of what he'd, uh, mentioned. He'd have to fix that, he'd thought, and so plastered on a fake grin as the door opened and announced, "Home sweet home!" Before lifting up her things again and beginning to shuffle them inside.