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We were driving to Gatwick Airport when the accident had happened.

No.

We were coming here. All of us.

The whole family.

I’d forgotten. And the memory returned with searing clarity. The early start.

Our excitement.

The songs in the car.

And we never got to Gatwick.

No. No. No.

And I’d just spent an entire afternoon and not thought about my absent family.

The white noise had gone. I was relaxed, happy.

How could Dylan not tell me?

How did I not remember? Is it because we went by train this time?

And how could I forget them?

Crippling guilt consumed me. The sorrow was overwhelming as I sank slowly onto the gravel driveway, vaguely aware that the sharp stones were digging into my shins and knees and thighs, but I didn’t care.

A whole day! I hadn’t thought of them for a whole day.

And we were coming here. And I’m here now, enjoying this beautiful place.

How could I betray them like this?

The agony was unbearable. I wrapped my arms around myself in an effort to contain it, rocking back and forth as I drowned in the pain.

The desolation was total.

I opened my mouth in a silent scream.

“Non, Emily. Non.” Madame Gombert was beside me, and she tried to lift me. “Dylan!” she shouted. “Oh, ma petite, non,” she murmured, distressed.

“Shit! Emily!” Dylan gathered me up into his arms, Madame Gombert brushed the gravel from my legs, and he carried me into the house.

“Que s’est-il passé?” Dylan asked Madame Gombert.

“Je ne sais pas. Je l’ai vu s’effondrer dans l’allée.”

Dylan carried me into the front room, took a seat on the sofa, and placed me beside him. I began to shiver. He curled his arms around me. “Hush, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Did something happen?”

I turned tearful, accusatory eyes at Dylan. “You didn’t tell me. We were coming here.”

Dylan blanched and closed his eyes, and I knew he knew what I was referring to.

“I just remembered. And I hadn’t thought about them all afternoon. I’ve had a lovely day… and not thought about my family.”

My absent, dead family.