I drove out to my parents’ house.‘Dad! Mum!’ I called, letting myself in.My mother appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Her eyes did that quick, head-to-toe scan only mothers can perform, diagnosing emotional and physical well-being in a single glance.She then turned towards the garden door and shouted, ‘Jeremy! Put that spade down this instant and go to the supermarket. Get something nice for dinner.’My father shuffled in, beaming at me, his trousers dusted with what I hoped was potting soil. ‘Of course! Right away.’I hugged my mum. ‘Thanks, Mum. You don’t have to go to any trouble.’She patted my cheek, her gaze softening as she studied my face. ‘So, living on your own. Are you remembering to eat properly?’‘Yes! I’m absolutely thriving. It’s all freedom and takeaways and doing whatever I want, whenever I want.’My dad, sitting on the bottom stair struggling with his shoelaces, chimed in. ‘Well, your mother’s bound to worry. Ever since the divorce, and all
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