I sit down on the naughty step, coat on, bag in hand. It's no longer the naughty step, but it was sixty years ago when my children were growing up. Of course now they are gone, married and have naughty steps for their own children.
The bare walls bear the squares of pictures no longer there. My gaze lowers to the darker patch of carpet on which the telephone table rested. I had stood there to announce the breaking of waters, to wish countless happy birthdays, and to dial for the ambulance.
This house is too big just for me.