My first thought, when Jack broke up with me, was how much I would miss his house. The house that he lives in – alone – with its multiple bedrooms, garden and functioning dishwasher. It was a refuge from my crumbling flat and a respite from its other inhabitants. I’d miss his mother, who had adored me and fed me and gifted me the clothes she’d saved for a daughter she never had. It was the thought of her, laden with coats, smiling brightly on my doorstep, that sent tears down my cheeks. Jack reached his hand out; he was crying, too.
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