THREE STORIES
He lay in his bed that night, wide awake, watching the clock on his bedside table. It had been the slowest evening imaginable.
Cooking frozen lasagne had tired his mum out so badly she fell asleep five minutes into EastEnders.
Conor hated the programme but he made sure it recorded for her, then he spread a duvet over her and went and did the dishes.
His mum’s mobile had gone off once, not waking her. Conor saw it was Lily’s mum calling and let it go to voicemail.
He did his schoolwork at the kitchen table, stopping before he got to Mrs Marl’s Life Writing homework,
then he played around on the internet for a while in his room before brushing his teeth and seeing himself to bed.
He’d barely turned out the light when his mum had very apologetically – and very groggily – come in to kiss him good night.
A few minutes later, he’d heard her in the bathroom, throwing up. “Do you need any help?” he’d called from his bed.
“No, sweetheart,” his mum called back, weakly. “I’m kind of used to it by now.”
That was the thing. Conor was used to it, too. It was always the second and third days after the treatments that were the worst,
always the days when she was the most tired, when she threw up the most. It had almost become normal.
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