‘What a sad, dark summer this has been,’ I say to my six-year-old son as we sit at the kitchen table over tea. ’Grandad died, our dog died, and it’s been day after day of rain.’
He begins rootling through a drawer, looking for yellow paper. Scissors next, snippets of colour falling from his hands. As I sit lost in shadow, his idea takes shape with paper and glue.
‘Look, Mummy!’ beams my son, holding up his creation.
‘I’ve made you a sun!’
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