We head into the other bedroom, a larger, empty room with a double bed. I don’t need to ask why she doesn’t use it. She squats down beside a pile of neatly packed boxes. Each one has a small note in her neat handwriting. Mum’s clothes. Dad’s clothes. Board games. I have a new respect for Ophelia. In fact, it goes beyond respect and into reverence. I imagine a seventeen-year-old girl boxing up all of her parents’ possessions alone. It’s a miracle she’s still here and breathing.
