It was a Saturday, and when you woke up and went into the kitchen, Deliah was already there, talking to your mum, smiling when you entered and throwing herself at you for a hug.

Deliah loved hugs.

And your mum.

And your mum loved her.

You loved her as well, because she had brought cookies.

She did that every weekend – she would come over way too early in the morning, spend a few hours just talking to your mum and drinking hot chocolate, waiting for you to wake up so you could go eat lunch.

Once you'd joked that you were like an old, married couple, and she had smiled and shrugged, not finding anything wrong with being old.

Or married.

But when you went on to rant about couples, she didn't complain.

After you'd finished one or two or five cookies, she would pull out her bright orange jacket, hug your mum goodbye and then you'd walk out together, holding hands just because.

And it would take you at least one hour to get to the restaurant, because Deliah knew everyone.

But that was okay, because she was holding your hand.