Abi had been contentedly reading whilst she was meant to be ironing, though she was utterly shit at the job and instead had burnt her thumb and gave up halfway down the pile. Things were a lot easier though, after the outpouring of honest grief from Hemingway and herself in part too, things were finally purged and healing a little. She was happy to let Charlie play by himself in his room, away from the danger of the iron and the lure of television. It wasn't until she was thinking about whether she had enough eggs to make a birthday cake for her boy that things had gone suspiciously quiet from his room.
Silence in their house was deadly.
Quietly, Abi peeked into Charlie's room and saw it empty. Instead, she heard Hemingway's voice and slow clacks of his gorgeous typewriter. Unable to resist the curiosity of what they were doing, she peeked her head through the door and smiled as she saw her partner and her son playing with the typewriter.
"Can you type 'Mama'?" she asked, hovering in the doorway with an enamoured smile.