Elsie was always the last to fall asleep.
She would put the kids to bed and then clamber in next to Harry, waiting until she was sure he’d dropped off before she took one of his large hands and turned it over and over in both of hers. She’d skate the rough, tanned terrain of his palm, following each little line and crease with the tips of her fingers.
They were calloused, stubby – workman’s hands – but to her they were beautiful, each scrape and blister a memento of the hard work he put in day after day at the mill.
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