And then he sniffs loudly and lets me go, shoving his hands back into his pockets again, and not quite meeting my eye.

When it’s finally time to go in and sit down, I take the exact same seat in the middle of the dark brown pew at the front.

Daff sits on one side of me, her hand clamped tightly in mine. Simon and Chrissie and my cousins sit on the other side, taking it in turns to shoot me sad, concerned glances.

It’s strange, once the service starts, the things I notice that I didn’t first time round. Originally I blanked out everything the vicar was saying; my brain was just white noise as I stared at the coffin behind him. But this time I find myself listening closely to his every word. Mum wasn’t in the least bit religious, so to hear him talking so earnestly about how she is ‘with God now’ just makes me angry. Because what kind of God decides to randomly rupture an aneurysm in the brain of a fifty-eight-year-old woman as she’s walking home from Tesco on a Monday afternoon?

I’m suddenly struck by the image of her falling – what she must have looked like laid out in the middle of the high street. I feel Daff pull me towards her, because all my steel and self-control is faltering now, and I’m starting to gulp and heave. Hot, salty tears are running down my face and I can feel Daff’s whole body shaking as she kisses my soaking cheek and whispers, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK.’

But it’s not OK. I am so angry, and I don’t know if I will ever not be. I am angry about what happened to Mum. I am angry at the injustice of it. I am angry at my dad for leaving us, for not giving a shit about us, for not even bothering to show his face today. But I am also angry at myself, for the terrible things I said to Mum before she died, which I’ve never told anyone about. And it’s so tiring being angry all the time, and not knowing if it will ever end.

Uncle Simon is at the podium now, telling everyone that I’ll be coming up to read a poem, and for one awful second, I think the tears will completely overwhelm me.

But then Daff grips my hand tightly, and presses her forehead against mine and whispers, ‘I love you.’ And somehow, I find that I’m in control again. Just.

Simon looks over at me, his brow furrowed with concern. But Daff gives my hand one more squeeze, and I think: I can do this. If I know she’s here, I can do it.