‘What is it, Mr Hannigan?’ she asks, watching it written all over my face, the utter hopelessness of it all. She knows. She knows it like I do, its touch, its taste, its smell. It is then she lays her hand on mine. I stare at it, and am surprised at my instinct to want to place my other on top. But it will not move. ‘How have you coped?’ I say, instead. ‘With him dying, leaving you, how have you managed to keep going?’ ‘Ah. That. Does one really? That’s more the question. Does one really cope?
Finally found his support group he needs
