I don’t write dad any more letters. I just take my washing home, drink tea, chat about not much and don’t tell him anything about what I get up to in Southampton. When I am home A. comes to sleep over, and dad, as ever, is fine with that and leaves cups of tea outside my bedroom door, announced with a subtle cough. Years later he tells he didn’t approve at all really, but didn’t want to spoil it for me as he was just happy that I had found someone, (like he found mum, he didn’t need to say).

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