Sitting among the toddlers inside Newcastle’s Seven Stories book museum, my son Sam, 7, listened to the storyteller.
‘I loved that,’ he grinned afterwards.
Sam loved stories.
When he wasn’t busy sketching his own adventures, he was having real ones with his little sister Beth, then 6, or big brother Tony, then 22.
Our boy was a live wire.
But soon after his 8th birthday in August 2015, when my husband Paul, then 44, and I took the kids on holiday to America, Sam seemed tired.
Back home, the doctor wasn’t worried, but when I saw Sam next to hishe seemed so pale and thin.
