Dad was a diplomat, or so I was told. Honestly I was too young to understand or care. He might have been MI5 for all I knew. The only thing I understood was that he was gone a good bit, and that when he was home we were an inseparable lot; me, my mum and him.
My parents loved me a great deal and I always felt loved even when I thought that I was different from other boys. But they loved each other even more and I could see it each time their eyes met. Maybe that was why their death hurt me so much, because their love for each other was the spark in my small world that told me how much I was loved.
When my dad left in the mornings my mum’s last touch was just a light whisper of her fingertips, as if enticing him to hurry through the day and come back home again. And when he did return there was always a small cuddle in the foyer, or the kitchen, or wherever he caught Mum unawares. I use to watch them when he snuck in and winked at me, a conspirator’s nod before he ambushed Mum with his simple affections. It always made me smile. [Read more...]