She lowered him into his cradle, whispering sweet nothings as his eyes fluttered shut. Luke appeared at the door, catching her mid-reverie in the unfinished nursery.
'We'll be on the beach again soon,' she croaked, through the tubes. I nodded, hardly looking up from The Gruffalo. So I waited. At the beach. Everyday. For fifty years. And realized not long ago, that I was the one running late.