“I put the dishes in the dishwasher.” “And took the rubbish out,” his mum said quietly,
looking at how neat he’d left the kitchen. “There’s washing going, too,” Conor said.
“You’re a good boy,” she said, and though she was smiling, he could hear sadness in it, too.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t up.” “It’s okay.” “It’s just this new round of–” “It’s okay,” Conor said.
She stopped, but she still smiled back at him. She hadn’t tied her scarf around her head yet this morning,
and her bare scalp looked too soft, too fragile in the morning light, like a baby’s. It made Conor’s stomach hurt to see it.
“Was that you I heard last night?” she asked. Conor froze. “When?”
“Sometime after midnight, must have been,” she said, shuffling over to switch on the kettle.
I thought I was dreaming but I could have sworn I heard your voice.
“Probably just talking in my sleep,” Conor said, flatly. “Probably,” his mum yawned.
She took a mug off the rack hanging by the fridge. “I forgot to tell you,” she said, lightly,
“your grandma’s coming by tomorrow.” Conor’s shoulders sank. “Aw, Mum.”
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