She’s cracking eggs. “What are those?” she asks, pointing to white and red specks in the bowl. Once I’d have told her it was shell- but she’s too old for that now so- “Where the eggs started to grow” “Into chickens?” “Yes” “Oh” she says, staring intently at a gooey mess in the palm of her hand. I finish weighing out the ingredients, wipe her clean- “Which colour icing do you want?” She’s carefully spooning cake mix into bright-striped paper cases. “Can we make angel cakes instead?” I go into the kitchen to pre-heat the oven, steal two minutes silence. Deep breath. “No. We'd be cutting up perfect little cupcakes to make the wings” Choked. I can’t tell her why I don’t do Angels in December.