It was my return to church at Christmas that ultimately swayed her. The depth to which I had to push my sorrow was almost too great as I sat in our pew without you. Father Anthony seemed genuinely happy to have me return to his flock at last, and I could not tell him that I doubted my return would be permanent. I am yet to resolve my anger with a God that deemed his need for our little one was greater than ours and he refuses yet to answer my prayers for your safe return. Nor can I bear to hear ‘Amazing Grace’ without conjuring thoughts of you holding my hand the way you always did when we sang it together. I am far from found, my darling.

However, I must endure this cruel pain. I overheard Mother asking, no, ordering, Father Anthony to keep her informed of my health. I wonder for how long I shall have to maintain my religious pretence.

I even attended the CWA’s annual Christmas Fair. It was a more subdued version of the usual scene of wild children running from pony to slide and back again, and overly sweet jams in gingham-topped jars. But the battle of the sponges was centre stage again and caused this year’s scandal. Joan Wetherby was mortified to lose her title to young Mrs Li – you can imagine the outrage that burned across her pale, pointed face. I do fear for Father Anthony’s safety now, as he was the judge in question. Always was a man of impeccable taste, I say. The wood chop was a rather sobering affair with so few young men competing. Another reminder of the war.

It might surprise you that I did not enter my lamington cakes this year, but then, it may not. I told Mother I certainly would. I shall simply tell her I did not place, though she will not believe it. The only thing I have ever done to make her proud is winning that ribbon every year.

The entire town is trying so hard to continue as usual, and I wonder how many of our neighbours are pretending their lives are happy and normal. I doubt many can see through my own facade. Except Lucy. We share our unhappy bond wordlessly, but I know we understand each other’s pain.

There are still days, I am ashamed to admit, that I do not rise until midday and days I do not leave the house at all. Not even to venture in to the garden. You would be disappointed with how I am wallowing so. I am not proud.

These days are less and less frequent, however, and I have decided I will make the garden my focus. I will tend the plants and flowers as you always did, in preparation for your return.

I will leave you now, my darling. I think of you each passing moment.

Forever yours,

Ivy