Mum, by K. J. Watson

I burst my football when I was three-years-old.

’What’ve you done, Paul?’ Mum asked.

‘Don’t fuss,’ I told her. ‘You can buy me a new one.’

Years later, Mum lost her job.

‘Cheer up,’ I said. ‘Your redundancy money’s enough to cover the cost of my wedding.’

Time passed. Mum died.

‘Who’s going to pay for our holidays now?’ I asked my wife.

‘And Christmas … and the children’s birthday parties,’ my wife rejoined.

The day of Mum’s cremation, a parcel arrived.

‘It’s from Mum’s solicitor,’ I said. ‘Let’s see what I’ve inherited.’

The parcel held a burst football.