I read the words again. So the house started with a death. Two deaths, in fact; a double bereavement. Is that why I felt so at home there? Is there some kind of affinity between those austere spaces and my own sense of loss?
Automatically I glance at the suitcase by the window. A suitcase full of baby clothes.
My baby died. My baby dies and then, three days later, she was born. Even now, its the unnatural wrongness of it, the horror of that casual inversion of the proper order of things, that hurts almost more than anything.