He’s quiet tonight. Not upset. Just . . . thinking. But the therapist said looking at memories and remembering how Anika was before, will help.
His small finger presses against one of the pictures. “What’s this one?”
I glance down. It was taken on the park. A sunny day before Seb’s fourth birthday. There’s a blanket on the grass. And Anika is laughing at something, with her head thrown back like she didn’t have a care in the world.
“You don’t remember this?” I ask him.
He squints. “A bit . . .”
“You were a nightmare,” I tell him. “Wouldn’t sit still. Kept running off.”
He frowns. “I didn’t.”
“You did,” I say, turning the page. “Your mum had to chase you halfway across the park.”
His mouth twitches. “Did she catch me?”
“Eventually,” I say. “She bribed you with crisps.” It gets a small laugh out of him.
I tap the next photo of Anika behind him on the swings, pushing him so high his feet are nearly level with the bar.
“You loved those,” I tell him. “You refused to get off.”
“I don’t remember,” he mutters.
“You cried when we left,” I add. “Proper meltdown.”
“I did not.”
“You did,” I say, nudging him lightly. “Had to carry you home over my shoulder.”
He studies the picture again, quieter now. “She looks happy,” he says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “She was . . . cos she had you.”
He pauses. “Why can’t I remember it properly?” he asks.
“You were little,” I say. “Some memories come back later, some don’t. And that’s okay.”
He nods, but his fingers stay on the photo. “I miss her,” he says after a moment.
I pull him a little closer, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I know you do.” My hand rests at the back of his neck, steady. “We all miss her.”
He leans into me. “I wish she was still here.”
“Me too, mate.”
I tap the album again. “That’s why we keep these—so we don’t forget the good bits.”
He glances up. “Will you tell me more?”
“‘Course I will.”
I flip back a page. “This one . . . this was the day you decided you hated sandwiches.”
“I still do.”
“You launched one at me.”
