“Your mother?” I cleared my throat. “She used to sing while she cooked, when she was healthier. She always made up these songs that never sounded quite right. Trying to rhyme ‘celery’ and ‘friendly’ and things like that.” I smiled even though my throat was squeezing. “She made everything better. Every bad day in school, every splinter, every time I felt so scared I couldn’t breathe. She was ill my whole life and never complained. Not once.”
