He spreads marmalade onto toast, cuts each slice into quarters and remembers to remove the crusts. His daughter sits at the kitchen table, picking at the sleeve of the borrowed black cardigan, while her leg jitters up and down in her school trousers.
He places the toast in front of her. For a few optimistic seconds, he thinks she’s finally going to eat, but she pushes the plate away. Her dark-rimmed eyes, brown like her mother’s, glisten in her pale face.
“That’s not how Mum used to make it.”