Words I only ever dare to read when I won’t be disturbed, because they’re almost unbearably poignant.

But despite how emotional I’m feeling, I get to the end of the page without the tears coming. Instead, it strikes me for the first time how a child might not grasp what Andrew means until they grow up. What if he didn’t only write this page for the children who might never exist? What if it’s really written for me?

I laugh. Because it’s a mad idea. But also because I suddenly understand that The Amazing Book of Us is meant to be two books in one: a message to the family he dreamed of, but also a love letter to our short life together. And now I’m flummoxed by how it could have taken me this long to realize.

I turn back to page one and reread it all. It still works as a storybook, yes. But even if I discover tomorrow that we’re never going to be parents, it works as a celebration of Amazing Us.

My clever, clever husband.

Of course there are a few clumsy phrases. No wonder: he worked so hard to finish it, even when he was very sick. He typed and edited, often falling asleep over the keyboard. Each evening he’d read the latest part out loud. I never mentioned the odd awkward sentence, because I didn’t want him to know I’d noticed the mental deterioration he was trying to hide.

And when he copied it with a fountain pen onto 225gsm cartridge paper, I also pretended not to have seen how randomly he spaced the words on the page.

Nothing is random.

I leaf backwards and forwards and spot something weird. The clumsy words are always at the very beginning of a line . . .

Could he have done it on purpose? I grab a notebook and jot down the words, feeling foolish, but too curious to stop:

This

Of

Me

You

Game

With

Happened

Excited

Not

OK, I was wrong. That makes no sense.

Until I run my eyes down the first letters of each word on the page: TOMYGWHEN

To my G. When . . .

It’s the puzzle. The last puzzle Andrew told his mother he’d hidden for me to find. It has been here the whole time.

My eyes smart from staring at the page, but I keep going, writing down the first letter of each line:

TOMYGWHENYOUDECIPHERMYLASTRIDDLEIT
MEANSTHATITSTIMEFORYOUTOMOVEON
LIFEISTOOSHORTTOBELONELYYOUDESERVE
LOVEYOURFOREVERPUZZLING

The words appear as though he’s writing the message in front of my eyes. I daren’t take a breath.

To my G, when you decipher my last riddle, it means that it’s time for you to move on. Life is too short to be lonely. You deserve love. Your forever-puzzling

Andrew

Oh God, I am crying now as I imagine him creating the puzzle, secretly, and smiling to himself as he pictured me deciphering it, on a day like today.