“Why is Dad coming?” he called after her. “Your mum’s waiting,” she said, pulling the front door shut behind her.
Conor hadn’t even had a chance to put down his rucksack. His father was coming. His father. From America.
Who hadn’t come since the Christmas before last. Whose new wife always seemed to suffer emergencies at the last minute
that kept him from visiting more often, especially now that the baby was born.
His father, who Conor had grown used to not having around as the trips grew less frequent and the phone calls got further and further apart.
His father was coming. Why? “Conor?” he heard his mum call. She wasn’t in her room.
She was in his, lying back on his bed on top of the duvet, gazing out of the window to the churchyard up the hill.
And the yew tree. Which was just a yew tree.
“Hey, darling,” she said, smiling at him from where she lay, but he could tell by the lines around her eyes that she really was hurting,
hurting like he’d only seen her hurt once before. She’d had to go into hospital then as well and hadn’t come out for nearly a fortnight.
It had been last Easter, and the weeks at his grandma’s had almost been the death of them both.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Why are you going back to hospital?”
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