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I’ve been up since eight. Thea’s still asleep in my bed. But I couldn’t disturb her this morning after the night she had. She looked so peaceful lying there next to me, hugging the quilt tightly like a soft toy.
The storm has passed, and the sun is shining: a perfect Sunday morning for pancakes and syrup. I haven’t made these in years; Thea’s favourite. I cook about six mini ones first, leaving the rest of the batter in the jug. If she wants more, then I’ll make them later. I’ve searched the cupboard, and all I could find was golden syrup; no maple. Oh well, that will have to do until I’ve gone shopping.
I lay the pancakes on a large plate and set them down on the kitchen table, next to the orange juice. God knows why I’m in such an optimistic mood after all the drama. And I have no
