The room in Oxford where they lived for a while, mostly in the bed, the smell of breast milk and old cups of herbal tea, the picture books she read to September, July tucked in the crook of her arm. She’d never had so many hands on her, feeling like her skin could wear away like thin material. Her love for them was like carrying shopping bags up a hill and at times she became convinced they wanted the very foundations of her, wanted to break the bricks of her body apart and climb back in.
