Mum keeps his bedroom door shut.
His pictures are still in the living room. They used to gather dust, but not any more. She must polish them when I’m not looking.
She’s taken his coat off it’s peg and his shoes out of the hall. It’s like he’s just gone out. Or run away, like everyone says. Kids run away all the time. He’ll be back in a few days. Days turn into weeks. Then months.
In the bathroom there’s the piece of evidence that mum clings to.
His red toothbrush still stands next to mine.
He didn’t pack it.