That way, I remain under the radar.

I’m sitting with one of my photo albums on my lap, the afternoon sun filtering through the blinds. I love having something solid to hold; physical proof of my once happy family. I think it’s such a shame this tradition is being replaced with images on a phone, or computer. It’s not the same. I love flicking through my albums, remembering happier times.

When I had Nick and Tim.

When I had Bern.

I slip one of the photos from its clear, protective sleeve. It’s a rare one of my boys all together in the house. I remember taking it. We’d all been sitting around the dining-room table, having just finished eating dinner. And Tim had looked at Bern and said, Good day at work, Dad? Bern had seemed taken aback – it was usually him enquiring about their day at school. He’d appeared genuinely touched someone had asked him for a change. Within moments, he and the boys were deep in conversation – even Nick, who was only seven, was engrossed. I got up from the table unnoticed and managed to snap this photo at just the right time. All of them chatting together – a normal, cohesive family.

One that would be destroyed soon after that moment.

I touch their smiling, immobile faces now. A joyful moment in time, forever captured. I close my eyes and try to recall their voices, their vibrancy.

The three of them together.

Bern looks happy, too, in this photo; his last. That’s what I choose to see.

“Barb ’n’ Bern”. It had always been how people referred to us. We came as a pair. We were spoken of as a pair. I smile at the memory – but then I feel my face slacken. A cloud descends. There were bad memories, too.

His sudden death; its aftermath.

The funeral.

Losing Tim.

Huge tears bump down over my cheeks. So much loss.

I slam the photo album shut and wipe my tears away. I can’t live through any more pain.

I replace the album underneath the coffee table and get up, walking towards the back of the bungalow, a bit stiff. I still have my Nick. And for the moment, I still have Amber, Finley and Leo. I must hold on to them. Crouching down, I reach an arm to the back of the utility cupboard, retrieving the black, leather-bound A4-sized book I concealed there. I take it to the lounge and flip through the pages until I get to the details I need.

The phone vibrates in my hand – it’s not ringing, it’s jiggling because my hands are. It’s not that I want to do this; I have to. There are only so many things I can think of doing that will prevent me losing everything. Stop Nick from losing everything too.

I dial the number beside the name, pressing the buttons slowly; decisively.