“How did it happen?” I ask. “Slowly. It was the guilt, Oliver,” she says. “The guilt was killing him. Why did you think he stopped visiting?” There’s a note of desperation in her voice, but I have no pity for her. There’s no room for that. No room for anger either. Only a catastrophic sense of loss. Filippa is still talking, but I hardly hear the words. “You know how he was. If we felt everything twice, he felt it all four times.”
