“Now, now, there, there. A greasy treat for the journey, boy-o, that’ll sort you out.”

But all I could do was stand there. Like I was in one of those TV ads where everything around the person speeds up and they’re left standing dead still as the world rushes on around them in superfast motion. Outside, I was paralyzed, but inside, I was falling at a million miles an hour and the only real thing I had to hold on to was the warm, pulsing pain behind the scar on my stomach.

The feeling hadn’t subsided much in the four hours it took to drive up through Somerset, Bristol, across the Severn and into Wales. But as I stood in front of the Eden Rock Guesthouse and said yes to my son, it backed off and dulled to an uneasy background hum. Because Norman seemed almost back to normal. Not the old normal, of course, but a passable version of my new, sad son. I’d take anything, though, because anything was better than what I’d seen back there on the footpath in Barnstaple.

Even though we were a day early, the manager of the Eden Rock seemed quite delighted to see us. So much so, in fact, that he upgraded the two rooms I’d booked to a suite. Which by the way was drop-dead, how-the-hell-did-I-get-this-so-right gorgeous, with huge sash windows, views of the ocean, two bedrooms, a sitting room and even a tiny balcony.

After the manager left, Norman and Leonard went out to check on the view, and I took a step back and checked out mine. I followed the arc of Leonard’s arm, set within a perfect frame of sky and ocean, as he pointed out something far off toward the horizon, while the other rested easily on Norman’s shoulder. A sudden strong gust caught the bottom of the white voile curtains and whipped them out the doors. Just for a moment, the two of them were obscured from my view and I got the feeling there was more than one thing shifting in my universe.

Norman couldn’t wait to get down to the beach, but as far as I’m concerned, if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. I mean, how different can a few miles of sand be? Was Welsh sand any better than Cornish? I doubted it and, frankly, all the conversation I’d been forced to make lately, combined with the worry of Norman’s meltdown and keeping this plan on the rails, had taken its toll. So, tucked up on the little balcony with a cup of tea seemed like it might be a pretty good place to be.

I leaned back on the hard wicker chair and closed my eyes, enjoying the feeling of the sea breeze sharpening in my nostrils and what I realized was my first bit of solitude for three days. Had it really been that long? And that short? The screech of seagulls and the dull crash of the waves filled my ears and, just like that, the Swansea breeze picked me up and carried me down to the beach. I ran along the sand, chasing the birds, arms outstretched, shouting and laughing into the spray. I felt something warm and safe and bent into my father’s body as he lifted me up high and kissed my salty six-year-old head. I’ve got you, Sadie, love.