As my mum Angela, then 44, scraped cake mix from the bowl, I flashed her pleading eyes.
‘Go on then,’ she said, handing me the wooden spoon to lick.
It was 2008 and, aged 5, I loved baking with Mum.
Coconut buns today.
‘My favourite,’ my dad Ian, then 47, said, pinching one as they cooled.
I sniggered as Mum crept behind him and smashed an egg on his head.
‘Take that,’ she giggled, as yolk trickled down his face.
I savoured the sound of laughter – there hadn’t been much lately.
Mum had breast cancer.
She’d beaten the disease in 1993, aged 29, but now it’d come back.
Having eight kids – Ryan, then 21, my twin Jake, 5, and our four other brothers, then 18, 16, 9 and…
