Don't pretend to care. I don't need you as an anesthetic.

It's as if a child with a brush and too much enthusiasm has been set free with a tin of black paint inside me.

I said I wouldn't leave her.

And now he's down this for me. He's made me famous. He's put my name on the world.

The inside of the door is glossy white. A total re-paint. I touch it with my fingers, but it stays the same. It's so bright it makes the room waver at the edges. Every few years we disappear.

All I know is that I have two choices – stay wrapped in blankets and get on with dying, or get the list back together and get on with living.

Dad, you played rounders with me, even though you hated it and wished I'd take up cricket. You learned how to keep a stamp collecion because I wanted to know. For hours you sat in hospitals and never, not once, complained. You brushed my hair like a mother should. You gave up work for me, friends for me, four years of your life for me. You never moaned. Hardly ever. You let me have Adam. You let me have my list. I was outrageous. Wanting, wanting so much. And you never said, 'That's enough. Stop now.