One of us is going to crack. I hope it's not me but, on the other hand, if son Matt is the first to provoke a showdown then the fall-out could be dramatic.
Since his wonderful decision to leave Furniture Fiasco on the grounds that they might possibly not be able to put him in charge of the whole UK empire by the time he turned 20, we have avoided the subject.
In fact, we have virtually avoided each other for more than a week and, frankly, that's suited me down to the ground.
Within a split second of Matt's momentous announcement that he would not be returning to the store where he hypnotised unsuspecting people into buying suites, dining sets and beds, I knew he was looking for a reaction.
Matt declared himself on holiday until some new employer was lucky enough to get his talents.
He clearly views himself as a sort of Cristiano Ronaldo of the sales world and imagines the big store versions of Real Madrid and Manchester United fighting for his services.
All of this inflated ego stuff was boosted by the shock news that UK retail sales, contrary to all predictions, soared in May.
"That's me done that," he said, pointing at the breaking news on the telly. "I'm not listening to any more lies about recessions and downturns."
No doubt, when a slump is is announced next month he will claim that his temporary retirement from the world of flogging stuff has sent the pound spiralling, hit house prices and made us take out mortgages on diesel instead.
But, I digress. Once he didn't have a reason to get up in the morning Matt reverted to his vampiric existence, never coming home before Madmum was contentedly fast asleep upstairs.
This is the pattern: I rise each day and set off for work without checking whether he has returned overnight. On my return to Madmum's Cottage in the evening, all the tell-tale signs that he is still alive are there. But not him.
The emptied fridge. The boxer shorts on the stairs. A tap (cold, thank goodness) left running. Each night I simply gather up any stray objects connected to Matt, open the door of his pit and chuck stuff in it.
Then I settle down with the telly, do a bit of tidy up or get ready to go out myself.
The first four days of this passed without us seeing each other at all. Then, at the weekend, I half woke as he came in. Just as I was dozing off again he appeared at my bedside.
"Hello Mum," he said. "I was starting to worry about you. You're never here. Sorry it's nearly three in the morning but as you are awake I thought I'd just say I'm going to get another job. And all the biscuits are gone if you're doing any shopping."
Pulling the duvet over my head I replied: "I am asleep, not shopping, so go away. The 24-hour garage sells biscuits."
When you combine his weekend vanishing act with my own limited appearances at Madmum's Cottage, we shared no more than 20 minutes on Saturday and Sunday.
Then it was back to work, for me at least. Who's going to give in?