She’s put on her warm coat out of habit. There’s no need, she’ll be stewing in the shops. Drizzly, though. She opens her red umbrella.
Maybe she shouldn’t bother. She sends the parcels tracked, she knows they arrive. Do the clothes fit, she wonders. Do the children like their books and toys? The twins will be teenagers soon, then she’ll really struggle for presents.
It’s not that she demands a thank you. It’d be nice to hear she spends money on the right things. Maybe a card, with a photo.
Because she doesn’t know what her grandchildren look like anymore.