Opening the cafe door to the smell of sizzling bacon, I skipped to the counter in my black trousers and red school jumper.
There, my mum Caroline, then 29, rang up an order on the till.
‘Can I have some money for sweets?’ I pleaded.
It was late 2005, and aged 9, I’d pop by to see Mum at the cafe where she worked most days after school, before playing out with my mates.
‘Sorry love, not now,’ she replied, hurrying off to the kitchen to fetch an order.
With me and my siblings Chelsey, then 7, and Nathan, 11, at home, Mum worked two jobs to pay the bills.
My dad David, then 43, lived separately.
Just then, one of the regulars thrust his chubby hand out.
‘Here’s a…
