I was hugging the edge of the mattress in my attempt to get as far from him as I could. I lay there, my eyes wide open, listening to the rhythms of his breathing, gauging how safe I was. He was snoring lightly and wheezing a lot. As gingerly as I could, I crept from the bed. Our bedroom blinds were ajar, letting in a few shards of morning light. As I passed by the window I looked out across our gravelled driveway to where the yellow Suzuki used to be parked. It was one of those déjà-vu moments, that feeling you get when all this had happened before. Then, standing there in my thin strappy nightie, my feet bare on the cold wooden boards, I stared out into our garden and lost myself in the memory. I was drawn back to that morning of nine months ago, a morning very similar to this one. It was the day we lost Buttercup. Back then, I woke early much like I did today, opened the blinds and looked for the Suzuki. But for the first time ever, the car was not parked beside the roller door.
