He closed his eyes, and for a while I just stood in the doorway and watched him, his chest rising and falling under his T-shirt, his mouth slightly open. His breathing was shallow, and perhaps a little more laboured than on other days. But I had never seen him out of his chair, and I wasn’t sure whether it was something to do with the pressure of lying down.
‘Go,’ he muttered.
I left.
I read my magazine, lifting my head only to watch the snow settle thickly around the house, creeping up the window sills in powdery landscapes. Mum sent me a text message at 12.30pm, telling me that my father couldn’t get the car down the road. ‘Don’t set out for home without ringing us first,’ she instructed. I wasn’t sure what she thought she was going to do – send Dad out with a sledge and a St Bernard?
