The rabbit’s mine, so there,” Anita had said, watching Mark unhook the feeding bottle from the hutch, and head towards the kitchen.
“It so isn’t, it’s mine. You never clean him out, or feed him,” Mark retorted.
“I cuddle him. And he’s got a name. Rolo. Remember? Like, ‘I don’t love you enough to give you my last one’.”
There was a bit more tit for tat, then there had been a scrap, out in the garden – so as not to break anything. They were more scared of Mum than of each other.
Anita had been triumphant, sitting on the prone Mark, his nose pressed into a muddy patch. “Pick your battles,” she’d cried, knowing Mum couldn’t hear her.
Of the two of them, Anita had the brawn, while…