I push back my hair and set my wine glass on the little wooden coffee table in front of us, wishing I could find my singing voice and my writing confidence again too. I feel panicky at the thought, so I focus on my surroundings, just like Jack taught me when I confessed one day after a difficult time in my new job that I felt out of breath, overwhelmed and anxious.

The coffee table was left here by the previous owners and is one of my favourite pieces of furniture in the cottage, while a huge seascape painting sits above the fireplace, a housewarming present from Emily and Kevin who know how much I love the ocean. There’s a bookshelf containing everything from my childhood collection of Enid Blyton to Jack’s eclectic taste, including Seamus Heaney poetry and Paulo Coelho’s latest offerings. I breathe in and out, reminding myself I can say no. It’s just a friendly suggestion. I don’t have to sing if I don’t want to.

‘Do you think Matthew will ever sing professionally again?’ Sophie asks me, unaware of my brief inner anxiety. ‘That song he sang at your engagement party was something else, wasn’t it?! It’s such a shame to let a talent like that go to waste.’

‘I hope that when he settles into life in Galway, he’ll take a few gigs over there,’ I say, wishing my words to come true. ‘In fact, I secretly think Martin was encouraging him to go there for that very reason. You know, a fresh start, a new beginning. Sometimes we all need that.’

Jack puts his arm around me.

‘I have to say I totally agree,’ he says, pulling me closer for comfort. ‘Matthew will thrive with all that new energy there and Martin has his head screwed on for sure. He knows if Matthew is to walk again, and I truly believe he will, then positive change, lots to look forward to and lots to keep living for is the answer.’

The room goes silent as we ponder the idea of my brother ever getting out of his wheelchair – I’ve pictured the scene over and over in my head, willing for him to make it one day. It hurts me so deeply to think that it’s how people know him now. Poor Matthew. The one in the wheelchair. The one who was depressed. The one who could have made it, but didn’t.