I grab all the hangers I can manage and grunt as I carry them to the bed. If I were in my own bedroom I’d be chucking them down without a second thought, but Pia might as well be in my arms wearing every single garment – a vision that’s aided by the smell that wafts up my nostrils. Pia. Washing powder, cooking and the hint of perfume lingering on items that have been returned to the wardrobe when not considered dirty enough to wash. It’s like she’s here and I know I’m not the only one to feel it. I’m aware of Mike’s eyes watching me, taking in every garment and where my hands are touching them. I lay her down gently with great care.

We work slowly. None of us seems to be in a great rush to actually get the job done. We savour the attack on the senses that continues with every piece being moved, trying to ignore the gaping hole being made in Mike’s wardrobe.

‘Mum got her this a few years ago,’ Mike says with a grimace, holding up the most hideous jumper I’ve ever seen. Stripes of red, blue, yellow and grey run horizontally in dozens of different patterns. It’s busy, and not very Pia.

‘Mmm …’ I nod.

‘Bold look,’ Zaza adds.

‘I laughed when she put it on, which made her super defensive over Mum’s choice – which apparently she got from a vintage shop especially, because she thought Pia would appreciate the gesture,’ Mike shares. ‘She did, and went on to wear it to as many of our trips to Mum’s as she could without raising suspicions.’

We all titter at the thought.

‘Keep it?’ I ask.

‘God no …’ he frowns, placing it into the charity box. ‘I’m sure someone else will love it.’

I turn back to the wardrobe and get ready to tackle the top shelf of boxes and bags. Right in the corner is a larger white box which I bring down with care – scared that everything else is going to fall on top of me. Thankfully it’s pretty light. Once it’s safely down on the ground I see Pia’s handwriting scrawled across the top. In big bold black letters she’s written ‘HAPPIEST DAY OF MY LIFE!’.

‘Oh,’ I say, realizing what the box contains.

‘Have you found gold?’ asks Zaza, who’s been perched on the floor folding clothes into various boxes – even the ones that are heading to the dump have been packed nicely.

Mike walks over, his lips pursing as he reads the words his deceased wife had written about their wedding day.