“Look what’s just arrived,” exclaims my husband, pulling me eagerly into the bedroom.
I gasp at the apparition in porcelain sitting on the rocking chair. Wiry black hair is piled onto its head, the thin body dressed in her trademark bottle green. Glass eyes appear to gloat, whilst the ruby red mouth is painted into a sneer.
“It’s almost as if she never left,” he continues, as my skin prickles at the eerie replica of his mother. The attention to detail is unflinchingly accurate. A diseased heart may have seen her off, but Dolls Like Us brought her back to life.