I held my mother’s hand. I have always thought that a mother symbolised warmth. I thought how strange it was that her fingers lay hard and cold in my palm.
‘Mother?’ I whispered, brushing her hair from her eyes.
She didn’t answer. Her mouth was slack and her eyes stared above her.
‘It’s time, Molly. You must leave.’ My father led me from the room and shut the door. I pressed my ear against the wood.
20 years later, I have still never been so sure of anything, as I was that my father uttered the words: ‘Thank God.’