It was when we were facing each other in bed in the dark that he spoke low and quiet to me. “Thank you for caring,” he said, “for Mum.” “Making sure she gets her ham sandwiches isn’t really caring for her,” I said. “Oh, it really is,” he said, stroking my hair. “Shit!” I said, suddenly realising. “What?” “Biscuits. She wanted biscuits for afters. What are her favourites? Have you got any? I mean, if you haven’t got any, her favourites, I mean, we’ll have to stop somewhere on the way. She –” “Stop!” he said and touched a finger to my lips. “Custard creams. She loves them. I can’t stand them.
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