"Daniel," she said, her voice thick with emotion as she pulled me into a fierce, tight, beautiful hug. "Oh, look at you. Just look at you." She held me at arm's length, her eyes full of a quiet, compassionate understanding, taking in my new haircut, my new clothes, the new, unfamiliar confidence in my posture.
"A proper Londoner now, eh?" she said, her voice a mixture of pride, love, and a gentle, affectionate teasing. "Come in, come in. The kettle's on."
The afternoon was a blur of tea, of biscuits, of a quiet, comfortable, beautiful conversation. She wanted to know everything about the team, about the players, about Emma, about our life in London.
She had been following our progress obsessively, cutting out articles from the local paper, watching highlights on the television, her pride a fierce, protective, beautiful thing.
