The Day My Friend Died
It had been a stupid, albeit fatal, error.
My parents were deep in conversation about the decorating, only giving me enough attention to hear the prices and decide to order from there. I wished I could be that oblivious, but my mind was racing.
“...heavy-duty paint ought to help cover the damp stains upstairs.” I heard my father say. “It’s almost as if it’s seeped up, not down. I swear it wasn’t there when we viewed the place.”
“Have a plumber look,” my mother called, lifting her voice to be heard as she switched the kettle on. “It’s got an odd colouring to it. I don’t know if we have copper pipes, but maybe there’s a leak.”
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