Deborah and I walk side by side along the paved path edged with rose bushes that leads to the guest property. There’s always a disconcerting moment as I push open the cottage door. Are the previous guests still here? What odd items will we discover they’ve left behind?

“Hello?” I call out as we open the front door.

The sound of the back door slamming shut makes us both jump.

Silence.

There is no sign of anyone as I check the back door. It’s unlocked. I relax as I glance around because the cleaning company have definitely been and gone, I can tell by residual smell of furniture polish and bleach. The door must’ve been left open by the cleaners. In fairness, a rare oversight.

While Deborah fills a vase with carnations, which she takes out of a basket I hadn’t noticed she was carrying, I flick through the guest book, skim-reading multiple paragraphs of compliments. Clean, stunning location, wonderful attention to detail, comfortable. I make a note to add the latest testimonial to the website.

“I’ll make us some tea,” I say. “I’ll clean up afterward,” I add before she can object.

I drop Stuart’s tie into the bin, along with the tea bags and mini-cartons of long-life milk. Although it’s only little by little, I’ve removed yet another unnecessary reminder for Stuart. It’s rewarding. This is just one example of the many small but effective ways I can help.

I make Deborah’s tea extra milky, exactly how she likes it.

“Thanks,” she says as I hand her a mug decorated with poppies.

“Shall we sit down?” I say, pointing to the sofa.

“No, we shouldn’t. We’ll leave creases. I’d rather stand to be honest.”

Grief makes me want to control things, makes me furious, makes me want to live. I mute my irritation; standing it is then. She sips her tea with obvious non-enjoyment.

As I struggle to think of something neutral to say (a contrast to our relationship pre–Nina’s diagnosis), I compare my own surroundings with these luxurious ones. Our semi is nice enough, there’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s new and the walls are thin. It has a temporary feel to it as if the big bad wolf could blow the house down with one breath. Here, the old stone walls give off an air of permanence and security. I would feel happy and safe if I lived in a place with history. I’ve suggested to Ben a few times that we move; it’s time to bring the subject up again.

It’s the word Stuart that jolts me back into the moment.

“Pardon?”

“His parents have offered to come and stay,” Deborah says. “I think it would be a good idea, it would give him the support he needs from the people best able to provide it.”

“Oh,” I say.

He hasn’t mentioned this to me.

“People mean well, I’ve seen the steady stream of...” she pauses “...women—mostly—knocking at the door with a shepherd’s pie, a casserole, a lasagna, books or an offer of this, that and the other, but that’s not what he needs. He’s a grown man, and it’s best if he concentrates on the children for now, without distractions.”