We get drunk, by accident, on Saturday and stay up chatting in the kitchen of our tiny flat until the early hours. The next morning Jack, aged 8, asks why everyone was shouting all night about voting.
There’s masses of pink blossom in drifts all over the tarmac outside our building. Ben, aged 5, inspects the area and says, “It’s nice around here. Like a wedding.”
Aaryanna, aged 2, stands in the doorway with her little muddy coat on, hood up. She has a woollen scarecrow doll under her arm and is ready to leave. She watches her brothers walk away, to go home to a different town, to their different Mum and starts to cry, “I miss my boys.”
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