“Dad, you’ve got to get rid of the sofa.”
He looked up from his place among the shapeless cushions and threadbare fabric. “Do you know how long it has taken me to mould this sofa to my shape? It’s not going anywhere.”
“But it’s hideous!”
“Your mother chose this sofa.”
The mother she only remembered from a single memory and those five photographs, as faded as the sofa.
She softened and smiled a wistful smile. “Fine. It can stay for a bit longer.”
He remembered how angry Carol had been when the sofa arrived.
Copied his daughter’s smile. “Thank you.”
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