“Mummy, how old were you when you got rid of your favourite cuddly toy?”
A thoughtful, wistful expression. “I’m not sure. Probably around twenty.”
A twinkling laugh, a grey toy rabbit clutched in a small hand. “That’s so old Mummy!”
*
She was now thirty eight years old, and that grey rabbit with a single plastic eye and patchwork skin looked down at her from the shelf beside her bed. She picked it up and breathed deeply into its neck, the scent of patchouli from long-ago sprayed perfume embedded into its fabric.
“I’ve still got her mum. Sorry for laughing.”
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