I stayed in bed until late again this morning, but you can hardly blame me. I still can’t seem to sleep. So, I lay there and rested, and I imagined you were still here with me. I imagined I could hear the drone of the mower while you did the lawns, or that you were fixing the engine of the old Holden Commodore in the shed or pottering around downstairs, and any moment you’d appear in the doorway and say, ‘For goodness sake, woman, get out of bed — you’re retired, not dead!’

Yes, but you are, my dear.

And you’re not coming back, are you?

It’s stupid that I post these letters, isn’t it? Do you know where I send them? Up to Robin’s Nest. So silly, as if you’re up there having a holiday. As if this Christmas when I arrive, you’ll be there waiting for me. But you won’t, will you? Because you’re gone. In those first few months I kept thinking, okay, that’s enough now. You can stop being dead. You can come back. I’ve done my grieving and I’ve had enough of it and you can bloody well come back.

But you didn’t. You wouldn’t. Didn’t matter if I cried. Didn’t matter if I yelled and screamed and swore. Nothing would make you come back. I keep asking you questions as though one day you’ll write back and give me all the answers. For instance, that damned email. ‘You need to know’. What am I meant to do with that, Frank? I should have deleted it the moment it arrived. She has no right to tell me what I need. But for some stupid reason I’ve held onto it and it just keeps niggling at me.

I’m going to have to make sure I’m the first one to arrive at the house this Christmas. I’ll need to run in there quick smart and grab the mail before they see all the letters. They’ll think I’ve gone mad if they find them. Letter after letter addressed to you. And what will I do with them? Open them up and read them? Tear them to pieces? Burn them?

Each time I write the words ‘Robin’s Nest’ on the front of the envelope, I think back to the day I had the plaque made up for the house. I wasn’t sure what you’d think when you saw it. I was worried you might be upset. But instead you touched your fingers to it and you smiled. The boys still don’t know why I chose that name. I wonder if I’ll ever tell them.

The closer it gets to Christmas Eve, the harder it is to breathe. The harder it is to hold on. The harder it is to hide the pain.