She found Dad in the lounge, stretched out on the settee, holding his book.
This was the way he liked to spend his Sundays. He was such a creature of habit. Mum used to complain about it. He had these little habits of always doing things the same way, in the same order, at the same time. Her brother used to say that it took her to an early grave, but she didn’t think so.
She held his wrist; it must have happened in the last half hour.