He thinks of Lily’s boxes of keepsakes and realises these are the riches. What the hell has he been doing, he wonders, sifting through the earth on another continent, looking for the fragmented remains of someone else’s life from a thousand, or ten thousand, years ago? Looking for broken pieces of china, a chip of clay, as though they were precious. As though they had more importance than the foundations of his own life with Lily, which she has nurtured all this time.
