We can watch videos of Claire, fill the house with photos of her, and saturate our pillows with her perfume, and ask her for signs, and rejoice when she sends them, and share our most special and our most trivial memories of her. And we can believe that she’s in a better place. But none of that matters. And none of it fucking helps. Because she is not fucking here. I rock my beautiful, amazing, brave daughter in my arms as she wails and flails and soaks through the soft cotton of my t-shirt with her torrent of tears. ‘Want Mummy,’ she sobs against my chest. ‘I know, sweetheart, I know.’ I know
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