‘As if,’ I’d reply, and she would look at me with her don’t-say-that face, then would shovel the yellow crumbs into her mouth, tapping with her free hand for me to get in next to her.

To distract me from the pain, I thought about you. In doing so, I remembered the card and removed myself from Dale’s bed. Soundless. Put on my dressing gown and crept to my room.

Kneeling on the unhoovered carpet next to the bed, I grabbed my bag and pulled it towards me. Extracted the card. Then searched into the darkness underneath with my arm and dragged out the case, disturbing the dust once more. After pressing a few times to dislodge the rusted left lock, it opened. I tried to avoid the diaries. Just concentrated on placing the latest souvenir with our picture. Safe from prying eyes. Enjoying the feeling of having part of you with me.

Despite the comfort I felt from my growing collection, I was still drawn to her last journal. Like a tarot card on which your mind fixates because you know it holds all the answers.

Inhaling a sharp breath, I dared to lift it out. Wiped my now damp cheeks and the droplets that had fallen to darken the cover. I turned to the last page. It was blank. Turned one backwards. Still blank. Another. And another.

Then there it was.

My beautiful Constance, I’m so sorry—

‘Are you OK?’

‘Sorry, Dale . . . I . . . didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘What’s going on?’

He was coming towards me, dragging his feet and rubbing his eyes. I shut the diary and threw it on top of the heap. Closed the case, checking the dodgy left lock was secure and pushed it back under. ‘Nothing . . . I . . . I just really want to get an urn for her ashes. For my birthday. I really need an urn.’

‘What’s in that case?’

‘Nothing . . . Just things of Mum’s . . . Nothing.’

He knelt by my side and pulled me towards him. Hugged me. I know it sounds selfish, but I wanted it. Needed it. ‘Hey, come on. It’ll be OK, I promise you . . . All I want is to make you feel happy and safe. Not like this anymore,’ he said.

And for that moment I believed him. Thought perhaps I’d got everything wrong. That maybe she’d sent him to me. If I could just love him in return.

But it doesn’t work like that, does it?

Being at the surgery was a struggle.

A stressed-out Linda informed me you were at Harley Street and Dr Short was also absent due to a ‘family issue’, meaning we had to ring and cancel patients or advise them there would be a wait.

I told Linda I had cystitis, so I could keep skiving off to the loo for a cry.