"Mummy, mummy, guess what?"

"Angela, we've talked about this: No running the house," Shelagh chided gently.

Her daughter came to a halt at the doorway to the kitchen. "But I've stopped now." She rocked back on her heels and grinned. "Guess what?"

Shelagh put aside the laundry and focused her attention on Angela. "What?"

"I'm going to be a snowflake in the Christmas play!" she said proudly. "I get to sing and everything."

"That's wonderful, darling. Well done." Shelagh beamed. "We'll all have to come and see your stage debut."

Angela giggled. "You'll even make Tim come?"

"We'll find a way to convince him," Shelagh said, with a wink. "And I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Then disaster struck.

At first, Shelagh dismissed her cough and runny nose as a result of the cold weather. She was tired too, but she'd worked several late shifts at the maternity home recently, on top of preparing for Christmas. She was worn out, that was all. But the morning of the pantomime, she woke up an hour late, her head so clogged and achy she felt like she was moving through smog. Patrick took one look at her and prescribed bed rest until she was well.

"I feel awful." Shelagh sighed, lying back on the propped-up pillows. "It's Angela's first time in the Christmas pantomime and I'm going to miss it."

"It's not your fault you've got the flu," Timothy said, bringing her a cup of tea. "Anyway, Dad missed loads of my recitals and stuff and I still turned out fine."

Patrick just rolled his eyes.

"But you missed him then." Shelagh looked at the clock. "The pantomime isn't until 7 p.m. Maybe with a bit of rest –"

"Shelagh, you have a fever," Patrick said. "I'm sorry, my love, but you're not going anywhere today."

Her head throbbed and her eyes felt heavy with tiredness and tears. "Perhaps you're right."

Shelagh spent most of the day napping or drinking the tea left at her bedside at intervals by a worried Timothy. She hoped Angela wouldn't be too disappointed; she'd talked about nothing but the pantomime for weeks. Why did she have to be ill at Christmas?

Angela came in with Patrick, just before they left for the church. Shelagh sat up in bed, and gave her daughter a tired smile.

"Look at you," she said, as Angela twirled around in her white dress. "You look just like a snowflake. I'm sorry I have to miss it, dearest."

"That's all right. I hope you feel better, Mummy." She gave her a kiss on the cheek.

Patrick did as well. "Rest. I'll tell you all about it."

Shelagh heard the door click behind them, and the flat went quiet. She closed her eyes and tried not to let her melancholy get the better of her. There would be many other Christmases.

She woke a few hours later, still tired, but her head felt clear enough to venture to the kitchen for something to eat. She'd just made tea and put bread in the toaster when the front door opened, letting in a gust of cold air, and one tiny snowflake.

"Mummy!"

"Angela, remember we said about being quiet? Your mother's resting – oh. Shelagh." Patrick came in, followed by Tim, both of them wearing concerned frowns.

"Why aren't you in bed?" Patrick asked.

"I just came out for a cup of tea and something to eat."

"Are you feeling better?" Angela asked.

"A little. How was pantomime?"

"Wonderful," Angela said, drawing out the word. "Can I sing you my song now? Tim said he'd play the piano and I could sing and then it would be like you were there."

Shelagh gave Tim a grateful smile. "Only if you're not too tired," Patrick said sternly.

"Too tired for a private concert performance by Miss Angela Turner?" Shelagh shook her head and went to take her front-row seat on the sofa. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."