The little one in Toronto called me by name on the video, clear as anything, and I made my son turn the phone back so I could hear it again. He laughed and said the child had been practising. I was pleased enough to tell half the market, then the call finished and I felt the distance all over again. A barrel can bring plenty things, but it cannot bring the child into my kitchen. I know they are doing well there. I don't want them worrying that every good thing makes me sad. It doesn't. Most of the evening I was smiling, and now and then I wanted to reach straight through that small screen and pick the baby up.

I took out the visitor papers again and started checking the same details I checked last time. Name right, dates right, documents in the folder, and still I found some reason not to send them. My daughter asked whether I was missing a paper or just afraid of the answer. I didn't appreciate the question immediately. Thinking about it now, both would feel easier than this waiting I am doing to myself. There is the stall to arrange too, but I arrange other people's time every week. I want to work out a proper cover plan and then see what is truly left to do. Not announce the journey yet, just stop calling every small worry a missing document.

By the time the rush eased, my shoes were tight across the top and I was shifting from one foot to the other without moving anywhere. Took the stool before three today, let the helper reach the bags while I weighed and counted. Nobody stopped buying because I sat down, though you would think so from the way I resist the thing. At home I soaked my feet and could still feel the hard market ground under them. My son asked if I wanted something from the kitchen. I nearly got up to fetch it myself, then stayed right there. The water had cooled before I finished telling him where the cup was, as if he doesn't live in the same house.