Occasionally I let my son have a Burger meal from a fast food place. I don’t eat that stuff – I try to be good. But, good god, it smells amazing. The car smells so good I’m dribbling on the steering wheel.
We get home. I unpack the food and plate it up for my son like a Masterchef contestant. The fries are crispy and hot, perfectly salted. My mouth waters. I haven’t eaten anything since that salad at lunch…
‘Can I have a chip?’ I say, and my son’s arm curls around the plate protectively as he shakes his head. ‘Mine.’ ‘Just one?’ I wheedle. ‘For mummy?’ Another shake of the head.
Later, much later, when the fries are cold and hard, he brings them to me. Three quarters of the packet untouched. Rigid. Dead.
‘For you, mummy.’