The Story of Us by Dani Atkins

Amy’s mum, and broken, in a way I didn’t think would ever be fixed. I went to her side, and could find no words that could offer even a moment’s solace. Instead I just picked up her hand and held it, much as I had held her daughter’s two nights earlier.
    When I had phoned that morning, to arrange this meeting, I’d been unsure of how they would receive me. They had, after all, contacted Caroline and not me in the first instance. Was it possible that they blamed me in some way for Amy’s death?
    â€˜If there’s anything I can do to help… with the arrangements…’ My voice trailed away. It seemed I was just as inept as my fiancé at getting the words out. Fortunately organisation was Donald Travis’s forte, and in a strange way I sensed that having a funeral to arrange would carry him through the next ten days, until the time came to bury his child.
    â€˜There is just one thing…’ Linda began hesitantly.
    â€˜Anything. Please name it.’
    She gave a sad ghost of a smile. ‘The undertaker has asked us to pick out an outfit, and I really don’t think I could—’ The words were lost in an avalanche of tears. Amy needed something to wear for the burial, and Linda, who had accompanied her daughter on countless shopping trips for the perfect dress, couldn’t bear the thought of choosing this final outfit. What mother could?
    Planning our wedding had been joyous and uplifting, so it really wasn’t surprising that having to pull it apart piece by piece was depressing, demoralising, and also incredibly sad. Of course I could have made the cancellations by phone or email, but there was something fittingly sombre in physically retracing the footsteps I had taken a couple of months earlier when I’d booked the venue, the church, the florist and the caterer. Also, I felt driven by a burning need to keep busy and active, as though if I kept moving fast enough I would somehow be able to outrun the pain.
    Many of the establishments I visited had been expecting my call to cancel. It’s a curious phenomenon that bad news seems to travel so much more effectively than good, but at least it saved me from the necessity of having to explain the reasons for the cancellation many times over.
    As I drove home from my final appointment it occurred to me that unpicking our wedding plans was just one more example of how my life was moving backwards instead of forwards. Nine years earlier I’d left my home town, family and boyfriend for university and then a career and life in London, yet here I was at twenty-seven, living back at home with my parents, working in the very same place where I’d been employed as a Saturday girl. Even resuming my relationship with Richard could be seen as a retrograde step. I honestly believed our relationship had run its course when I had broken up with him many years ago. Yet now we were getting married, or had been about to, if I hadn’t just spent the best part of the day undoing those plans.
    I was feeling tired and miserable as I let myself into the house. I could smell the flowers even before the front door was fully open. Their fragrance filled the hallway, and as I shut the door behind me my mouth opened in surprise when I saw the display propped up on the hall table. The exotic blooms were artfully gathered together beneath a clear cellophane sleeve, in a stunning bouquet. ‘Richard,’ I said with a smile, as I crossed over to the delivery and prised the small white envelope with my name on it from the corner of the packaging. He’d only sent me flowers twice before this, and both times they’d been small bunches of white freesias, his favourite flowers. I was genuinely touched by the thoughtfulness of his unexpected gesture. I pulled the small white card from its envelope, and felt my smile freeze, then thaw and widen. There were just eight handwritten words in bold black ink on the