The house was quiet except for the soft hum of the airing cupboard and the distant hiss of rain against the window.
I kept hearing the word burden.
It was not only cruel.
It was organised.
It had a future attached to it.
That night I walked through every room in the dark.
I touched the banister Frank had sanded smooth one summer when money was tight and we could not afford to replace it.
I stood in Daniel’s old bedroom, where the outline of a poster remained faintly marked on the wall.
I put my hand on the kitchen counter where Frank used to dry the dishes with that same tea towel even after I told him it needed washing.
I cried there, quietly, because I did not want the neighbours to hear and because some habits of dignity remain even when your heart is breaking.
By morning, the crying had done what crying can do.
It had emptied the first shock out of me.
What remained was colder.
