“Yours was blue; mine was yellow. She always had them made up with snacks, ready to go. Raisins and dried apple rings. Stuff that would keep. Picnic Time,” Maia said, her voice heavy. “That was Picnic Time? I remember it.” Another memory. “I hadn’t known that was why, though.” He wanted these fragments of his mum back, but they were steeped in so much sadness. Even the bits she’d tried to make nice for them. “She really loved us, didn’t she?”
