“We’ll leave in ten minutes,” I say. “Dessert can wait until we get home.”
Amy steps forward and hugs her nephew. He lets her. She’s been a huge influence in his life.
“Your mum is so proud of you,” she whispers, voice cracking. “And so am I.”
***
Cars come and go from the graveyard car park in a constant flow. Christmas Day is always the same: a never-ending stream of visitors to those now gone. In the past, I’ve sat for hours at Bex’s side. Speaking, not speaking, it didn’t matter as long as I was with her. Today, visiting is more of a nod to her rather than a purpose of the day.
That feels both right and wrong. Moving forward was inevitable if I want to live beyond my children’s lives. I never expected it to happen so suddenly. Four years of immobility have taken a matter of months to end.
And meeting Antonia was the catalyst; last night proved that. She may have said no, or I hope not yet, but it showed me that I can want someone again. I want to be with someone in a way I never thought possible. I can imagine her in my bed.
Between her and the retreat, I see now I have so much left to live for. That change can bring positivity while remembering our past.
We find a space. I reverse in, then cut the engine. We sit for a few moments, looking out at the sea of marble and people scattered around in Christmas jumpers and Santa hats. Aesthetically bizarre, but deep down, so right.
Without uttering a word, we open our doors and climb out of the car. My shoes crunch on the white gravel, still slightly frozen underfoot. Liam beats me to the trunk, opening it wide and pulling the wreath from its resting place. A few white lilies woven amongst the holly—they were always Bex’s favorite, Christmas or not.
I collect the picnic basket, and we make the short walk, shoulder to shoulder, to his mum.
Dust has settled on the headstone. Guilt claws that I haven’t been here. I pull a handkerchief from my pocket, wiping awaythe smudge. Liam lays the floral piece at the base before taking the basket from me. Carefully, he places three glasses on top, then pours the Bucks Fizz into each one.
“Not too much,” I warn him.
He smiles. Then pours a little more.
We lift one each. Taking a sip, then standing just with the glass between our hands. He lifts his mum’s glass and pours a dribble into the dirt, as if she’s enjoying her own.
“Dad got Ollie and me football tops,” he says quietly as he unzips his jacket, chest puffing out in red and white to show her. “And season tickets. Best Christmas ever…” His words trail off, nervous eyes sliding to me. I squeeze his shoulder.
“The best Christmas since we lost you,” he whispers. Something catches in my throat. Not pain, just the shape of what’s missing. “I love you, Mum.”
“We both do,” I add.
Liam steps toward his mother’s headstone, his hand resting on top, head bowed. I turn away; this moment is private. Even if he is my son.
As I do, I catch a flash of pink. Pink Wellington boots sitting on a deck chair by a nearby grave. Antonia sits. Quiet. Undisturbed. Fairy lights draped over her son’s grave. A small parcel wrapped in green with a bow at the base. A plate balances on her lap, the remains of what looks like a turkey dinner. Her eyes are closed. The winter sun has briefly appeared, and it streaks across her face.
I freeze. Not because I don’t know what to do, but because I shouldn’t be seeing this.
Her eyes open.
For a beat, there’s blankness, then recognition.
Our eyes lock, and for a second, neither of us looks away. Then her gaze shifts over my shoulder to my son, still talking to a headstone.
I nod. She does too.
“Let’s go home,” I say to Liam, glancing over my shoulder.
When I look back, she’s already standing, her back to me, packing up her things into a blue cooler.
Liam slips his arm through mine. She walks deeper into the rows of marble. The fairy lights stay on long after she disappears.