Duncan Keegan

That's not a question that I can easily answer.

So instead, shall I tell you a story?

On a Wednesday in February 2023, our Rory died.

He was five, and we brought his body home, and we held his wake, and we said goodbye.

And yet that's not the story.

The story I wish to tell is actually about our then 11-year-old daughter, Niamh, and how she came to say goodbye to her brother, to her Rory.

When they came, the men wore black, but they were kind and spoke quietly and asked where it would go.

The casket.

The living room, we said.

We helped them clear a path and make a place for it beside the couch.

They touched the lid to lift it, and then they left.

And as we looked at him, at how still he was, how pale, we cried.

And Niamh said, come in, come in, it's okay.

And from the doorway, she turned and she looked right through me.

And then she left.

She left.

She went round the corner and just some way up the stairs.

I had the sense to stay.

But Sarah went.

And I could hear a little, but I heard no argument, no promises, no words.