‘We’re allowed, Granny?’
‘Yes, Fred. An arty day!’
They spread pudgy hands onto paints I’ve splodged on our wedding China. Freddy holds out a green palm, turns to check he won’t get scolded.
‘Go on. Grandpops’ll love it!’
He handprints tentatively before Alfie smooshes the colours so they mix against the silver, creating a sludgy mess.
‘Even the windows?’ Freddy asks.
Giddiness is infectious. Splats on their faces and clothes. I laugh, the first time since I caught my husband with her.
‘Beautiful, poppets!’
I laugh again as I imagine his face when he gets home to his beloved Jag.
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