TRUE-LIFE
Padding into the kitchen for breakfast, I yawned sleepily.
‘Boo!’ my younger son, then 16, yelled, jumping out from behind the door.
‘Dan!’ I tutted, my heart racing. ‘Stop that!’
But he flashed me his cheeky grin and I couldn’t stay cross with him for long.
No one could. Not with Dan.
It was January 2014, and me and my husband Tim, then 49, had two sons.
Jacob, 18, had just started at Kent university.
Dan was our family mischief-maker, always teasing and laughing.
Everything was more fun with him around.
He was in sixth form now, having worked hard for good GCSE results.
He’s so grown-up, I thought, ruffling his hair.
He’d started going to a couple of
