“Choklat,” he demanded, his eyes glistening.

She was buying him ice cream. Again. Because she adored the way his little tongue twisted into the cone, chasing down the last oozing dregs.

And because, when he gleefully wiped his sticky fingers across his cardigan, she knew her suppressed resentment was justified.

Tamsin can currently be found poking writing with a stick, and then running away scared.