He squeezed my hand and smiled before picking up a copy of the Guardian from the table next to him and passing me the supplement.

We flicked through our respective publications in silence. Each time someone entered or left the cafe, they let in the raw air and I became uncomfortably cold, concluding I may as well be freezing outside but with the added joy of a cigarette.

‘I’m just going to pop and get some fags.’

He didn’t look up, only stroked my arm as I stood to leave.

Before reaching the Tesco Express, I was seduced into going inside a shop called Annie’s, which was filled with quaint delights I couldn’t afford.

Tracing my fingers over a cool glass case full of delicate jewellery, I wished that the angel-wing pendant at the back was Dale’s present. She loved angels. But at ninety-five pounds, I knew my wish would remain just that.

I dragged myself away from both the silver and the suspicious gaze of the sales bitch and wandered over to the small wall of cards, immediately being drawn to a beautiful watercolour of roses with Mum on the front. It was her first birthday since she died and I was dreading it. As I’m sure, unlike Dale, you’d have understood.

I’d lied about our not celebrating birthdays. We always did. It’d just be the two of us, of course. There was no one else. In the early years I’d overdose on cake and watch her descend into alcoholic numbness, and in the latter years we’d fall there together. How was I expected to celebrate the day she gave me life when she no longer had hers?

Trying to put it out of my mind, I scanned the other designs.

It was then I saw the card.

Rough, thick, cream-coloured paper. On the front, in a swirling black font, it said, Whatever our souls are made of, his & mine are the same. Underneath in smaller writing, Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights.

When rushing back to the cafe, my purchase pushed inside my bag, I almost forgot to stop at the Tesco Express for the cigarettes. Stood in the queue, I picked up a small bag of Lindt chocolate balls for Dale, to counteract my guilt.

That night, once Dale had fallen asleep during an episode of CSI, I went to my room and extracted the card. I was unsure what to do with it. Obviously, I couldn’t just write a message and post it to you. Thinking of my options, I slumped onto the bed, distractedly flicking through the magazine that Dale had stolen from the cafe for me. And it was after an article on whether snails offered the answer to anti-ageing that I noticed a review of Samuel Beckett’s Endgame at the National.