They met in the park on a sunny Saturday in June.

Tom brought a football. He was so nervous he'd forgotten to pump it up properly. Noah noticed straight away.

“It's flat,” Noah said.

“It is,” Tom admitted. “Sorry. I was nervous.”

Noah considered this. “I get nervous before matches.”

“What do you do?”

“Mum says take three big breaths.”

So they both took three big breaths, standing on the grass, and then Noah laughed, and Tom laughed, and they kicked the flat ball about for an hour.

I sat on a bench and watched. I didn't cry. I'd decided I wouldn't. I mostly managed.

Tom came the next Saturday too. And the one after that. He was never late. He never checked his phone. He learned the names of every player in Noah's team and every footballer on Noah's bedroom wall.

In August, he brought a present wrapped in old newspaper. Inside were a pair of tiny, worn football boots.

“They were mine,” Tom told Noah. “When I was your age. Your grandad Frank bought them for me. I thought you should have them.”

Noah held them as if they were made of gold.