f you could drop a pin on the map of your grief, where would you travel to? In the early days of mine, I would have motioned you to the toilet in my bathroom where I heaved on my knees, again and again, into the bowl below. Six months later, I would have swapped that room’s lino flooring for grass, walking you down to the banks of the River Thames. We’d head to the bend in the water where I scattered my husband’s ashes in a boat, marvelling at
