How I Lost You by Jenny Blackhurst

one out, putting it in an envelope and printing my own name and address on the front. The kind doctors at Oakdale would be preparing my old room before I’d even hung up. The best thing I can do now is keep my head down, answer her questions and try not to scream.
    ‘Emma, how are you?’ Tamara’s voice is warm and friendly. How can she sound so normal when my world is falling apart?
    ‘I’m good, thanks.’ I force myself to say the words but my voice betrays me. Tamara ignores this and carries on with her script.
    ‘How’s the job search going?’
    We go around on the meaningless carousel of questions as usual, only this time I’m waiting. Waiting for her to announce that she knows what I’ve done, she knows what I’m capable of. But she doesn’t. Is this what my life will be like from now on? Always waiting for someone to suddenly announce that they know my secret? Always wondering what I’m going to find I’ve done next?
    Before I even realise it, I’ve answered all of Tamara’s questions, obviously satisfactorily, because she tells me she’ll see me next week and says goodbye.
    I’m not going to do anything today. Cassie hasn’t called and neither has Nick.
    When they left last night, I barely spoke to either of them, just nodded my goodbye. Nick told me he was going back to the Travelodge to stay another night, and that he’d be in touch, but I know he won’t. His story is gone, his interest in my plight over now that he knows the truth. He felt sorry for you, that’s the only reason he agreed to help in the first place. He knew all along you were the one responsible.
    And if I’m truthful with myself, so did I. My eyes may sting with tiredness and the burden of last night’s tears, but my soul almost feels lighter. There’s no worrying, no wondering, no lying to myself. In the last two days I’ve managed to face the memories of how difficult those early days with Dylan were for me, something even three years in Oakdale didn’t force me to do, and I’m still alive, even if I do hate myself for it.
    I can take that. Self-hatred is something I’ve lived with since the day my son died.
    When the doorbell goes at 6 p.m., I expect it to be Cassie. Pulling aside my front room curtain, I’m surprised to see Carole from the Deli on the Square staring nervously at the door. She’s got something in her hand; it looks like a brown paper bag. Has she brought me cheese? I can’t even think about food right now. Uh oh Len, I think we have a problem.
    Still, I can’t leave her standing on my doorstep, so I swing open the door.
    ‘Carole, hi, how are you?’ I don’t want to engage in conversation, today of all days, but I don’t want to be rude either. I just hope that her witnessing my outburst in the street the other day doesn’t make her think she can pop over whenever she likes. I feel a little tricked, really, that I never even knew she lived so close yet she must have. Why didn’t she mention it one of the many times I’ve been in her shop? I step out on to the front step rather than invite her to come in. I know. Rude.
    ‘Emma, I’m so sorry to just turn up on your doorstep. I don’t want you to think I’m being pushy or anything . . .’
    ‘Of course not.’ That’s exactly what I was thinking.
    ‘It’s just that this was left for you in my porch this morning.’ She holds up a brown box. ‘I was in a massive rush to work and I completely forgot to bring it round before I went. I hope it isn’t important?’
    She looks as if she’s expecting me to explain, but my eyes haven’t left the box. When I don’t speak, she hands it to me awkwardly.
    ‘Did you see who left it?’ My tone is sharp; she’s got her answer – yes it is important. It’s very important.
    ‘No, it was inside the porch when I got up this morning, bloody stupid delivery man put it in 33 instead of 3 – I know it was early but how stupid can you be?’
    I turn the box round and my heart stops.
    ‘There