At ninety-five, Margery Yolk was pretty sure that she had made every wish that could be required in life.
She let someone else see to the door, the steady stream of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren parading into her little bungalow in Ipswich, hugs and good wishes in hand. She kept to her armchair and wondered if perhaps she should have at least attempted to find her false teeth for this occasion…
When the cake came she smiled, beckoning the youngest in close to blow out the candles for her.
“You can have my wish,” she whispered.