I must be good,” and he rubbed a sore spot on his arm. He was such a bad boy. Mum said she was kinder to him than most mothers. She only gave him soft beatings.

Willie’s arms and legs were covered with bruises, weals, and sores. Tom said nothing. There was no need.

Willie sat dejectedly at the table and watched Tom drag his small mattress past the window. He could hear him scrubbing away at it. He lowered his head. He was so ashamed.

Tom’s heart sank. He hadn’t been in the shop since Rachel had died. It was her favorite place. For forty years he hadn’t been able to bring himself to venture into it again.

Mum had told him that whenever he was good she liked him but that when he was bad, she didn’t. Neither did God or anyone else for...