The letter came through the post in an envelope marked just like any other. At the top was my name, and below it was our address. But it was printed –not handwritten, like so many of the letters I often received.
My mother found a pale imitation of me curled up on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, clinging onto the edges of consciousness.
In my hand, she saw the folded sheet of paper. She pried it away from my fingers, and took it upon herself to tell Henry that his father would not be coming home.
Your funeral was everything you would have wanted it to be.
