I was 14 when I was told that Dad was dying. I was sitting on the floor of our lounge. Mum said that she had some news. Sensing the worst, I fixated on the newspaper open in front of me, staring at an advert for German cut glass. It was cancer, in his pancreas, and he might only live a few more months. They were going to try an operation, she told me and my sister, to reduce the pain.
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