He teased his mother frequently and affectionately, and she responded with mock annoyance,
gently slapping him on the arm or chiding him for his rudeness.
I was warm and full and comfortable in a way I couldn’t remember feeling before.
Raymond’s mother heaved herself to her feet and reached for her walking frame.
She had crippling arthritis in her knees and hips, Raymond told me, while she hobbled upstairs to the bathroom.
The house wasn’t really suitable for someone with limited mobility, but she refused to move, he said,
because she’d lived all her adult life there and it was the place where she’d brought up her family.
“Now then,” she said, returning from upstairs, “I’ll wash these few dishes and then we can settle down and watch a bit of telly.”
Raymond got straight to his feet. “Sit down, Mum, let me do it—it won’t take a minute.
Eleanor will help me, won’t you, Eleanor?” I stood up and began gathering up the plates.
Mrs. Gibbons protested vehemently, but eventually sat back down in her chair, slow and awkward, and I heard a tiny sigh of pain.
Raymond washed and I dried. This was his suggestion—
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