‘Please don’t get me wrong. I feel guilty that I don’t feel sad—but y’know, it’s like someone let me out of prison. Which is a terrible thing to say about someone dying.’

‘I don’t think it’s terrible. It’s understandable,’ said Paula. ‘How are you going in practical terms? I mean, are you okay financially?’

Rochelle grimaced. ‘Money’s tricky.’

‘Did your husband have life insurance?’

‘No. Ian thought all insurance was a waste of money. His money was tied up in the business and there’s actually heaps of debt. That’s one of the things that used to make him riled up.’

‘Ah,’ said Paula. ‘If things were going badly in his business, he used to take it out on you.’

Rochelle nodded. ‘But it’s alright. My mum’s helping now. Ian couldn’t hack having my mum around. She hated his guts and he knew it. But now Nana picks up Brody from school two afternoons a week. Means I can work longer shifts. We’ll get there.’

‘I’m really glad to hear that, Rochelle. And how is Brody going? He looks pretty happy.’

‘He is. He is.’ Rochelle choked up and Paula handed her the box of tissues. ‘I used to kid myself Brody was okay. But when I look at him now, it’s like, “Oh, that’s who you are, Brody. That’s the happy little kid you were supposed to be.” Because he doesn’t have to worry about me all the time.’

‘Well, that’s great.’

‘Yeah, yeah, it is great. But makes me feel guilty. For letting it happen.’

‘Don’t waste emotional energy feeling guilty, Rochelle,’ said Paula. ‘You’re a brave person and a loving mother who did the best she could in an impossible situation.’

Rochelle looked up at Paula, desperate to believe what was being said to her.

‘Yes,’ said Paula firmly. ‘I’m a doctor so you have to believe me.’

Paula smiled and Rochelle laughed. They filled out the paperwork for a mental health plan so Rochelle could see a psychologist over the next few months.

‘Thanks for this. And thank you for being so kind to me and trying to help when everything was, y’know …’

Paula reached forward and hugged Rochelle. She felt the strength of this woman’s body.

‘The thing is,’ Rochelle said, ‘when you’ve been in a situation for so long, it feels like that’s normal life—well, even if you know it’s not normal, it’s how things are. But then something changes and it’s like, “I remember this! This is what safe feels like.”’

By the time Paula finished telling the story, Anita was sniffling and rummaging in her handbag for tissues.

‘Jesus, Paula,’ said Anita. ‘That’s spectacular. That’s … fuck …’

‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you cry.’

‘Don’t apologise. I love that story.’