“Daddy, I can’t sleep,” a tired voice drifted across the room.
“That’s okay, Michael, come and snuggle up with me,” I said making room for him on the sofa.
I covered him with a blanket and reached for the remote. We had a favourite DVD ready for such evenings.
“Cream together butter and sugar…” the woman on the television droned.
His eyelids grew heavy, “I miss mummy.”
I kissed him on the forehead, “I do too, sweetheart.”
There was something about the voice on the television that reminded him of his mother. Tomorrow would be the first Mother’s Day without her cheery voice greeting us.