I had a call with my Dad last thursday. He’s really bad with technology and struggles with basic things on his phone, but he’s been getting better with Whatsapp since Mum died. On Thursday he managed to send me photos of the dinner he’d mad for himself. His usual . onions, mushrooms and chicked, but with extra mixed frozen veggies and spaghetti, and he’s added a pasta sauce. It actually looked really good and he was clearly pleased with it. The fact he’d made the effort of figuring out how to send me photos was great and it made me well up. I was just replying when he called me so we chatted for our usual hour. On the call he also showed me christmas cards he’d written. One for Mark and Marietjie and another for Macayla. He’d used some of the cards Mum had made and had in a box, which in itself is really special, and had put a lot of effort in writing their names in a really decorative way. I still have a whole box of the cards Mum has made for me over the years, and they are so dear to me. A part of her I can keep and look back at. But what struck me was that Dad had signed the cards from him and Chloe (the dog), and it made me cry not seeing “from Mum” in them. Such small things that mean so much.