We all arrived at the front door at the same time. You’d been in bed, and Dad had called to say we didn’t have keys. We’d gone to get fish and chips and I closed the door and Dad was already at the gate and then I realised. I was seven and you were dying and you’d stopped walking or leaving the house, I think, but we needed you to let us in. Dad picked you up and carried you back to bed but I saw you; your mouth was open and you were wearing a shirt that’s mine, now.
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