‘Maybe.’ Bella looked towards the pram, where her heart lay sleeping. ‘But I’d rather he didn’t if it was only to tell me we have no future and then for me to watch him go again. Glynn is a happy babby who is doing great, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’

‘I guess. You’re the best mum, Bella. I’m proud of you.’ Merrin nodded as she sank down on the sofa. ‘And I agree in not complicating matters. Miguel and I are happy, but marriage?’ She shook her head.

‘You’ll figure it out, my girlie, you always do. But don’t make any decisions now, not when your brain is fuddled.’ Bella smiled at her. ‘And I’m proud of you. Look how far you’ve come.’

There was a knock on the door. This in itself was unusual, as every regular visitor knew the door was unlocked and you only had to open it and pop your head inside to call out your arrival.

‘Might be someone dropping off another card.’ Bella went to the door.

Merrin looked at the row of ‘In sympathy’ cards that now lined the shelves and the mantel, feeling grateful for and hating them in equal measure. She yawned and, when she opened her eyes, Bella was standing back to allow none other than Loretta Mortimer into their little home.

It was such a shock to see her there with rain lacing her hair that Merrin couldn’t find any words. Instead she stared at the woman, as if glued to the seat.

Digby’s mother’s manner was uncharacteristically hesitant and she looked down, running her fingers over the heads of the roses and ferns in her hand.

‘I was very sorry to hear about your father.’ She addressed Merrin directly. ‘I brought these for Heather.’ She held them out and it was Bella who took them and walked to the sink where a vase lived on the shelf above it.

Merrin felt rooted to the spot.

‘I saw Digby.’ She hadn’t intended on saying anything, but this came out almost instinctively, knowing it was Mrs Mortimer who had sent him.

Loretta nodded. ‘Yes. I thought . . . I thought . . .’

‘You thought what?’ Her voice was surprisingly clear and steady. Gone was the quiet, pleading tone that had wrapped her words that day in the vestry.

‘I thought it might do Digby good to have a conversation with you, to lay some ghosts to rest. For you to see him settled and move on and for him to do the same.’

‘I am not a ghost, Loretta. I am a person: a living, breathing person with feelings!’

‘I know.’ The woman held her gaze. ‘Digby and his family left yesterday and he . . . he wrote to me. I don’t think I’ve ever mulled over any correspondence in such a way.’ She looked close to tears. ‘I know it by heart.’