Mum spent a lot of time at Grandad’s house that summer; she always sighed before she went. Sometimes, she’d be half-out of the door, car keys in hand, and I’d make a coffee and she’d sit down again. As if she’d never intended to go. It’s difficult, she’d say. The summer light would glow […]
Read More… from Some Things Are Not Nothing – Short StoryLyndsay Wheble