Together

David and Libby are getting better. Their fevers are reducing and they even managed to eat some toast this morning. The feeling of togetherness against a common enemy has been a powerful source of strength.

We spoke late into the night about Dad and Kirsty. David was incredibly close to his father. They both shared a passion for football and he wanted to talk about Graham, while Libby was content just to listen. Despite their illness they seemed to be taking charge and keeping me going.

We've always loved living in the New Town yet earlier in our lives had often talked about moving out to somewhere like Barnton or Trinity to get a house with a garden but neither of us could ever bring ourselves to leave the city centre. Everything is on your doorstep - galleries, restaurants, theatres, shops - so we just stayed, even after the twins were born. Yet this wonderful house, this home, has become a prison. Wherever I look I see Graham. The photographs, the paintings, the clutter he left in his wake. There's even a pile of his discarded clothes lying beside our bed - I used to nag him about never tidying up. I keep expecting him to appear in the doorway or to be in a room when I enter. I even thought I heard his voice this morning from the kitchen but when I rushed through it was just the radio. This thing has stolen him. Poisoned our home. Infected our lives. Stolen our memories.