His hands are like mine. They were chubby and used to have wrist-rings, but these have unfolded as he’s grown. His nails grow at an alarming rate and with the strength that comes from youth and drinking all your milk, so they say. He prefers to eat with his hands but will use a knife and fork if there is gravy. His fingers move deftly over computer keys, gaming controllers, mobile phones, but it’s not so long since shoelaces were a fumble. He folds over the pages of books to mark his place, he picks up conkers and plucks blackberries in the park, he grips the handlebars of his bike, pedalling easily up the hill.
He strokes the ageing cat with great tenderness, strokes my hair sometimes, too, and he will still, every now and then, slip a hand in mine when we cross the road.