If you’re reading this, that means it’s Christmas Day and John’s had his present — hope he enjoys it. I’m sure he will. It also means that you’ve got your present. I know you will have been angry when you opened it — but that wasn’t my intention. Do you remember when I brought you the mirror in the hospital? And I said something like I know you were very beautiful. ‘

And you said, But I’m not now. ‘

And I said, ‘No. Not like you were. ‘

And you held out your hand and said, ‘Give me the mirror. ‘

Joan — the conversation was unfinished. I don’t think you realised that. When I said, ‘Not like you were’, I meant that now you’re beautiful in a different way.

You’ve spent more than a year watching your son suffer, watching him learning to speak, to write, to walk all over again. And not only have you done this — been there for him every day, been there for the months that John wouldn’t speak to you, been there when he screamed and wet himself in his sleep, when his skin was grafted —you have done this alone.

I can’t even begin to tell you how much I admire you. When you invited the journalists into your room to record the damage done to your face, I knew why you did that. When you allowed me to take John outside for the first time, you were generous enough to indulge my selfish whim. When John saw you for the first time and turned his back, you didn’t flinch, walk away. You stayed. And that’s why John will survive, why he’ll live up to his name — Special. Because you’ve made him so.

We never really had the opportunity to talk, to simply sit and talk about you and John, about my wife and children. About life outside the hospital. But believe me, I know what you’ve done. I watched as you looked in the mirror that day and I saw your face change. I watched you when I pulled the curtain back on Guy Fawkes Night, and saw your face change. I know that you have given up your life for John.

And I can’t tell you not to do that. I’d do the same. But all I’m saying Joan, is that you are beautiful in a different way. I pity the man, the husband, John’s father, who left you. What he has lost. Not many people find more than one form of beauty in their lives. And that’s why you have the compact. So that you can take it out with you and check, every now and then, on your new beauty.

Thinking of you,

Harry

John and I sat for a while in his bedroom, both of us holding the cards and letters from the people we had known at Tommy’s. Neither of us said — or heard - anything. We sat in silence and reread the words written by people who had lives, who were at that moment laughing, drinking, preparing the table, opening presents, answering phone calls from far-flung relations. People who were planning afternoon walks, games of Monopoly and Scrabble, the opening of huge tubs of Quality Street. As John sat on his bed, in an undecorated house, next to a mother who had forgotten it was Christmas.