Mum taught us to be independent. As teenagers she raised us both in what was generally a happy little house. “Latch key kids”, as she called us, we came home from school before she was done with work. While it sometimes caused her maternal guilt, it was never a bad thing, and we learned to coexist as a pair for that daily window, boiling pasta and arguing over the TV remote. When she’d had a bad day, as we all do sometimes, we tried to step up where we could. Harry’s attempts at cheering her up were all the better for their youthful earnestness. a 12-year-old has seen enough romcoms to know that a thoughtful close is one who runs a bath, so thats what she’d get from time to time, with a mismatch of house-gathered candles place around the bathroom.