Florence rested in the cool of her living room, shaded from the sweltering heat of western Uganda. Bernard was out picking mangoes, she smiled. He would be in soon.
Moments later a dusty kneed seven-year-old bounced in and flopped into an armchair. "My boy," beamed Florence with undisguised love.
It was late December and the family was preparing for Christmas. It was to be a poignant celebration, because it could be one of their last.
This mother and son were getting ready for what aid workers politely term "separation".
In plain language it means Florence, who is HIV positive, is getting ready to die.
The mother of five with smooth, dark skin looks the picture of health. But one day that luck will run dry. Her immune system will stumble, then crumble.
Disease will swoop. Then, like her husband Jackson before her, she will die.
But she will not be forgotten. Florence's life, loves and legacy are recorded in her "memory book", a jumble of family stories, snapshots, history and thoughts.
Aid workers say the intimate, hand-written books help families plan for the day when both parents are dead.
Names of relatives tell children who they can turn to; lists of possessions ensure nothing can be stolen.
One page is titled "The Story of Our Family".
There is a photo of Jackson, standing by a gleaming motorbike. To write the book, Florence explained how he contracted HIV from another woman, then passed it to her.
"It has brought us very close together," she said.
Bernard was born just before his father died, so it's possible he is HIV positive too. Florence thinks - hopes - he is not. But he has never been tested.
Jennifer, 19, wept softly as she explained how the memory book helped her come to terms with the cold reality of her mother's sickness.
"When I read it I know my mother can die. But it gives me courage to struggle hard. In case of anything, I am there," she said.