In the usually tranquil lounge, I sat with my arms crossed, my crutches leaning against the sofa as battle raged. ‘You are not cooking Christmas dinner, Zac!’ my daughter Sophie yelled, aiming a cushion at my son. ‘You couldn’t even cook a fish finger.’
‘Are you talking about yourself again?’ he retorted.
The cushion brushed across the streamers hanging from the ceiling.
‘Mind the tree!’ I warned as its passing set some of the baubles swinging. The cushion landed with a thud in the corner.
I could hardly believe my children were both intelligent, successful young people, now at university. They’d started acting like 12-year-olds ever since they arrived home for the holidays. I struggled to my feet, leaning my weight onto my crutches. ‘You need to stop this nonsense right now.’
‘What nonsense?’ Zac looks so much like his late father, all blue eyes and blond hair.
‘Yes, what nonsense?’ Sophie looks like me – dark hair and brown eyes.
I glanced around the room. Is it possible to overdo the decorations? My children had tried, plus the
