“You’re dressed up nice,” Ma says.
I look down at my only suit, which, after Googling how to get the creases out, I hung in the bathroom for two days. It hasn’t really worked.
In the kitchen, I open a window, breathe-breathe-BREATHE in the winter air.
When I go back into the living room, Mum’s watching Homes Under the Hammer, tears plopping onto her black dress. Maybe she knows, I think. Hope.
“They’ve made it look ever so nice,” she says. Her pale eyes flit in my direction. “You going anywhere special, love?”
I sit down in Dad’s armchair—explain again.