Tucked into bed and awaiting a kiss, the five year old tells me he is having bad dreams.
'Think of something nice' I say, as I pull up stripy sheets.
In a bed, in a room, in a house - stuffed to the brim with the paraphernalia of being five - my boy settles on his favourite thought of the day. 'The next sleepover'.
Head full then of a happy place. No. 1 with the iron gate.
My child is his Papa's boy - since the day he was born. And I see it now in the baby girl. Face lit up - arms outstretched to be lifted up.
And my Mum - the lady who lives at No. 1. Also very loved. But something about the man. Children's hearts and children's hands.
May it lessen not with time. Papa, hero, stand up guy... x