My daughter saved the last biscuit for me

Dear Delyara, I came into the kitchen late and there it was, wrapped in a napkin on the side, with “for Mum” written in her uneven handwriting. Something about that simple thoughtfulness nearly made me cry. Not because I needed the biscuit so much. Because I needed the feeling of being remembered in a small domestic way. Care from children can arrive so suddenly and so purely. It goes straight through all my adult defences. I ate it standing by the kettle. It tasted like being seen.