I notice a pink skipping rope hanging over the banister. A single Jelly Baby from last night remains on the carpet. Small shoes are scattered over the rack by the front door. Willa’s white sandals and the lace-up trainers she has finally learned to tie—all so tiny. Tiffin’s scuffed school shoes, his much-prized soccer boots, his gloves and “lucky” ball. Above them their school blazers hang discarded, empty, like ghosts of their real selves. I want them back; I want my children back. I miss them, the pain like a hole in my heart. They were so excited to go that I didn’t even have time to hug
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