Chapter 13 - Flanders

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On the first anniversary of Max's death I went to work rather than turn it into a memorial day. I could not face visiting the crematorium. He was not buried there but had a plaque in the children's garden. The plaque gave us a point of focus to remember him. I was asked why I did not take the day off. What can you say? I told the truth. If I visited the crematorium I would have spent the whole day crying and be severely depressed for the rest of the week.

I went to an office party a year after Max died. It was strange being alone and single again and not very nice. I was very conscious of the couples present. I coped fairly well until I began talking to a colleague who I did not know that well. He was Welsh and we talked about my hometown of Cardiff and about families moving to London.

"Do you have any children?"

"Yes, I have a daughter aged six."

"Have you ever thought of having any more children?"

This and questions like it were the killer questions. They used to occur quite often. You think you are in control and out of the blue comes a question about your family. Both Sara and I never flinched from the truth.

"You don't know then?"

"Sorry?"

"I used to have a son but he died a year ago from cancer."

He was mortified. He apologised and didn't know what to say. I told him that it was not a problem and that there was no way that he could have known. Perhaps I should have lied but I could not. I always felt that to deceive others is to deny the facts to yourself. I have never denied the harsh reality of Max's death. This sort of incident happened often in different contexts.

I fell apart after that conversation and got very drunk and ended up sitting in the car park, alone, crying in the rain. That was the point at which I started to retreat from the world. I never went to an office party again and gradually started to cut myself off from everyone around me.

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