I have a fond memory from a Monday a month or so after my mum died. My friend Deb’s son, then three years old, was playing hide and seek with my daughter of the same age. He picked a delightfully impressive hiding place, wedging himself into the bottom of my floor-to-ceiling shelves. He was wearing camouflage print and against the usual domestic detritus on our shelves proved genuinely difficult to find. Quite a feat.
I properly laughed, for which I was truly grateful. It had been quite a while since I had laughed like that. Deb was there to deliver dinner for us all; something she had promised to do a few days earlier. A family meal, every Monday, for the next few weeks.
