Squeezing Tara’s hand, I take a deep breath and lead her into the room where her mother is waiting. I’m immediately struck by how calm Roisin is and how beautiful and relaxed the room feels. I didn’t know what to expect. Fear, maybe tears, but Tara’s mam smiles at me and immediately I feel at ease. Roisin looks younger than she did last week when we sat by her bed discussing the final plan. I smile back at her, realising it’s not that she looks younger; it’s that she looks peaceful. Roisin is at peace with her decision.

To my left the silver-grey curtains are open. It was still bright when we arrived home from the festival but now the darkness is closing in, casting an evening shadow across the room onto Roisin’s bed.

At the far side of the bed, Tara’s dad is sitting, a broken man holding his wife’s hand. He looks up at me briefly and nods. I can tell he’s glad to see me here. I might not be fully qualified but I’m the closest thing he has to a medical expert and I’m glad to be able to ease his fears. I wish I could ease his pain. It’s leaking out through every pore in his body. The man looks about ten years older than he did last month. It’s clear this is all too much for him. But he’s here, by his wife’s side when she needs him most.

Last week, when finalising the plans, we went through every possible scenario. I had researched the dosage needed and the consequences of something going wrong. I played no part in securing the Nembutal. That was all Tara’s doing and I was pretty impressed she actually managed to get it.

Roisin wanted a few candles and a Beatles CD playing low in the background. The wall facing the bed is a maze of Roisin’s past.

A photo of a very young Tara hangs beside a photo of Roisin and Niall on their wedding day. There are other old black and white photographs – Roisin’s own parents and family, I presume. I’m not about to ask.

Among the scattered memorabilia are tickets to gigs, holiday photos, pieces of ornaments, a football jersey, a pair of ballet pumps, a sheet of music and a menu from some restaurant. A whole life pinned to a wall. I cast my eye over the evidence of Roisin’s existence and I wonder what my wall will look like. Will I have a wedding photo? Will Andriu be in it?

For the past few days Roisin lay in this bed amongst her past and now she is about to say goodbye to it. I can tell by her relaxed gaze, her stillness, her comforting eyes, that she is not afraid. Roisin is ready. Tara is trembling with fear.