and once cleaned the bath at midnight before going to bed. She wouldn’t let dinner dishes touch the sink
on their way to the dishwasher, once even taking a plate Conor was still eating from.
“A woman my age, living alone,” she said, at least once a day, “if I don’t keep on top of things, who will?”
She said it like a challenge, as if defying Conor to answer. She drove him to school,
and he got there early every single day, even though it was a forty-five minute drive.
She was also waiting for him every day after school when he left, taking them both straight to the hospital to see his mum.
They’d stay for an hour or so, less if his mum was too tired to talk – which had happened twice out of the previous five days –
and then go home to his grandma’s house, where she’d make him do his homework
while she ordered whatever take-away they hadn’t already eaten so far.
It was like the time Conor and his mum had stayed in a bed and breakfast one summer in Cornwall. Except cleaner. And bossier.
“Now, Conor,” she said, slipping on her suit jacket. It was a Sunday but she didn’t have any houses to show,
so he wasn’t sure why she was dressing up so much just to go to the hospital.
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