The empty house was a reminder of my failures. The grandfather clock that used to drive me nuts with its insistent ticking had been taken by my ex during the divorce. It wasn’t that I missed the noise – I’d hated that thing in all truth – but the lacking was a constant shock, more than turning the corner to find my husband standing right there would have been.

No longer was there the clichéd sound of little feet running through the house. The kids had never much ran, told to be silent, their mother had a headache. Their mother always had a headache. Now they’re grown, and they don’t bother visiting. I suppose they wouldn’t want to worsen their mother’s perpetual pain by talking to her.

So, all that’s left is me. I could talk to myself, but I have a strict rule against striking up conversations with people I don’t like.