Only You
I slid my feet into my fluffy slipper boots and grabbed my dressing gown off the back of the door, wrapping it around me like armour against the morning chill.
"Mummy’s coming, Harry," I called out softly, stepping into the hallway. The wailing ramped up a notch, a siren song of pure displeasure.
Suddenly, I heard the soft padding of little feet on the carpet. My four-year-old, Henry, appeared from his room, rubbing his eyes with chubby fists. His pyjamas were twisted, and his hair stuck up in a dishevelled tuft that made him look like a startled owl.
"Mummy! Harry’s crying! He woke me up," he yawned, his voice thick with sleep.