I scowl.
“Go glare at someone else,” she snaps. “I’m telling you now, take this summer on your own to put some plans into action. Do something for you. These last four years you’ve…”
“Amz, just pass me the onion, will you,” I mutter, all the while keeping my eyes on the pan.
***
Once everyone is fed, I wipe down the kitchen. Amy left for home moments after swallowing her final scoop of rice. The boys disappear to their rooms, no doubt to continue their soccer addiction via the television. I rehang my own apron next to Bex’s pink one, which still has pride of place on the back of the door.
The sofa offers comfort, but that’s not where I want to be, so I retreat to my own room.
The box sits hidden at the bottom of my wardrobe, right at the back, where I don’t have to look at it unless I’m searching for something else. It’s a dark-blue shoe box with the wordsJimmy Chootyped across the front. Inside, there used to be a pair of stunning diamante high heels that were Bex’s pride and joy.
When we bought them, she wore them everywhere, even when the destination was somewhere completely inappropriate. On the first day, the glittering contraptions were strapped toher feet, teamed with jeans and an ACDC t-shirt, to go to the supermarket. She said life was too short to save things for best. I agreed.
I lift the lid. It no longer holds the shoes, as they were buried with her. I hope she wears them every day wherever she is.
Now, the box holds papers instead. A collection of half-formed ideas, research, and advice. Notes taken, not for any particular reason, but because someone mentioned something of interest. Most of it, I have no idea what to do with.
I didn’t set out to keep them. They accumulated in the background, one conversation or internet search at a time.
The top sheet says it all: Setting up a charitable organization in the United Kingdom.
I’ve wanted to create something in Bex’s memory since her death, but never truly knew what I wanted to do. Something that mattered. Something that lasted longer than the wilting flowers on a grave. But between the children and my job, time has not been in abundant supply these past four years. There was never enough space to think it through while I learned to live without her.
A summer to myself may just be what I need to put the wheels in motion on this project. An empty house, quiet nights, and time to breathe.
The second paper peeks out below the first. The words written in handwriting so uneven it’s like I wasn’t sure I was allowed to commit them to paper yet.
The Bex Corrigan-Jones Retreat.
Before I can torture myself anymore, I slide the box back into place and close the wardrobe door.