I put the box back on the shelf and moved away. I wouldn’t buy any cereal at all. I’d have something else. But the same thing happened in the other aisles. I didn’t know which bread to buy, which cheese I liked. All I knew was which cleaning materials I liked, which washing powder was best. Even the soap confused me. Should I buy the one we always used? Did I actually like it? I didn’t know anymore. I could feel my throat swelling with tears and knew I had to get out of there. I hurried around the store, throwing things into the cart. The only criteria was that I hadn’t had it at home. If it looked familiar, I didn’t want it.

There was a woman in the supermarket who was buying cushions and blankets; she looked like she had good taste so I watched her and just bought what she did. This was a tip my mother had passed on to me. Not that she did it herself, of course, but she told me my taste was a bit odd. Unreliable, she said. She told me the best thing to do was to copy someone else who seemed to know what she was doing.

As soon as I was home, I unpacked my shopping. Already I knew I’d made some bad decisions. I didn’t care; I stuffed the cupboards and the fridge full of food. I threw the cushions and blankets onto the sofa, scattered a couple of magazines on the coffee table, and placed a plant from the florist’s shop downstairs on the windowsill.

When I’d finished I realized the room was arranged just as ours had been at home. It was like a poor man’s version of our living room. I stood for a while, unable to decide what to do. Tom had always been the one who decided how the living room would look. I knew I had to change things around; it would bring back too many memories otherwise, so I dragged the sofa into another position and put the table and chairs by the window. The furniture was heavy and I was hot and sweating by the time I finished, but I didn’t stop until it didn’t resemble home at all.