Popping on the kettle, I stood in my parents’ kitchen, thinking of all our happy memories there.
If these walls could talk, I thought, smiling.
There was the table where I’d revised for my O levels.
The kitchen that my mum Irma always kept spotless.
Mum and my dad Alan had bought our family bungalow back in 1993 when I was 12.
Now I was 32 with a little girl of my own, Louise, then 4, who was creating memories too, riding her scooter around the garden and colouring in at the dinner table.
Living down the road, we were always nipping by for a cuppa and bickies.
Especially after Dad died in 1996, aged 71, and I’d worried about Mum rattling around the place all alone.
She’d met someone…
