Clive stands a few paces back from the steps; he’d seen you enter the back gardens some time ago and debated interrupting your reading time. Ultimately, something had convinced him to. “The cook brought down lemon biscuits,” he calls out to you, though it’s not really what he came to say. When you glance up at him, your expression warm and familiar, gesturing for him to sit beside you on the bench, Clive wastes no time. Stiff-backed and awkward, he approaches and sits down beside you.

You never ask anything of him, never turn your nose up to him in disdain. His mother barely acknowledges his presence, but you? He’s seen how his father looks at you, how you smile at Joshua, and how you always make room for Clive. And though he’ll never say it out loud, sitting beside you now and listening the soft cadence of your voice as you start to read aloud, it’s the closest he’s ever felt to having a real mother.