Having duly taken the train over to Leeds for her appointment, Alison tracked down the counsellor’s address to the upper floors of a beauty salon just off Kirkgate, where she was shown into a bright, comfortable office space. A middle-aged woman with a calm voice and compassionate eyes introduced herself as Emily, then said simply, ‘So, Alison. Tell me a bit about why you’re here.’ The next thing she knew, she’d poured out the whole tragic story of Rich’s death, sparing nothing, and tears were dripping down her chin as she brought alive all the heartache once more. The shock, the pain, the blame. She’d never been able to say goodbye, she hadn’t been able to help him in time. She’d cut herself off from so many people, she’d built up all these walls because of her guilty feelings, the sense that she had failed her husband so badly.

‘I’ve never really talked about this before,’ Alison sobbed at the end, completely overwrought. ‘Because I never wanted my daughter to know. He was her hero. She’d be so upset.’

‘You don’t have to tell your daughter,’ Emily said, in her steady, wise voice. ‘The important thing is that you’ve told someone, that you’re not keeping these feelings locked up inside you any more. That’s what matters.’

Alison had been crying too much to reply, other than to nod, and Emily leaned forward with a box of tissues. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Alison,’ she said kindly. ‘You know that, don’t you? It really wasn’t. You mustn’t blame yourself.’

And there it was – the lifting of guilt at last, a chink of light pushing through the suffocating darkness. It wasn’t your fault. How she’d longed to hear those words, to receive their absolution. ‘Thank you,’ she managed to say in a quavering voice, replaying them again in her head. It wasn’t your fault. Then the two of them had just talked, and Alison had felt calmer and calmer, until to her great surprise Emily told her that the hour was almost up and their appointment was over.

‘Come back next week and tell me about something you’re really looking forward to in the future,’ she said, as Alison thanked her and dabbed at her eyes, ‘and think about one small way in which you can physically let go of your grief. It might be sorting through old photographs, or putting away possessions that hold sad memories. It might be simply trying to reset the way you think about your late husband each time, so that your angle is “We had some lovely times together” rather than “How I desperately miss him”. Even if it’s just one tiny change you make, I want to know.’