I try, a few times, opening my mouth to impart wisdom I don’t have, thankfully stopping myself before I say something stupid.

The edge of the letter shakes just slightly, a ripple from the continued tremor of his own hand.

‘Nobody should ever have to face something like that alone,’ he says, quietly.

‘Something like what?’ I ask, my mouth running dry.

James shakes his head again.

‘Like what?’ I repeat.

‘She always felt a weight of responsibility to them.’

‘To who?’

‘Her parents.’

I don’t understand what he’s saying. I screw my face up in question, but before I can ask, he speaks again.

‘I always thought it was because she was an only child. She knew their care would ultimately come down to her and she seemed to wear it like a badge of destiny. We’d sit sometimes, and I’d ask her what she wanted to be. She’d talk of teaching and I’d tell her she could do it. Because she could have. When she was away from them, when she briefly escaped their expectation… she shone.’ A sad smile falls across his face, his eyelids low and heavy. ‘I don’t think I ever truly understood how much their approval dictated her life. Like I said before, we were still young, and I guess we just didn’t see things like we do now with age.’ He flicks his eyes in my direction, taking the letter back. ‘Or is that just romance?’

‘I don’t understand…’

‘We remember things as we want them to be, don’t we? Humans, we’re known for projecting on others what we want them to see of us, whether that’s good or bad. Maybe the memory I have of her is my own projection.’

I consider his words. Is that what this is for me too? Am I being a fool to think there’s even the remotest chance that she’s the woman who gave me life? Is this trip all just romance of one form or another?

‘I remember it all though,’ he goes on. ‘The walks, the laughter, the cinema trips. The love. Maybe it all formed to protect the memory I had of the girl I left behind. Or maybe she wasn’t that girl at all.’ He holds both hands around the letter. ‘She can’t have been,’ he says simply. ‘The girl I knew would have survived.’

‘We don’t know she hasn’t,’ I say, the fear we might lose her returning, deeper.

‘Forgive me, but living and breathing doesn’t mean she survived, just that she is alive. It’s not the same thing. She hasn’t led the life she wanted. The life she hoped for. We met at church. Her parents were God-fearing – not fanatically so, but they held their beliefs much stronger than our family and they required the same of Susan. It seems that requirement obscured all else.’

I think of the crucifix that she wears. How the chain rolls as she breathes, when she moves.

‘She had questions, but rarely asked them. Certainly not of her parents, at least.’ His voice has shifted, frustration ebbing into his tone. ‘Can you imagine living a life in which every decision you took was based on your parents dogged view of the Will of God?’