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‘Oh, Beth…’
He reached out his free arm and pulled her against his side, and she laid her hand over the delicate little urn in his hand, her fingers curling round over his as she rested her head on his shoulder.
‘Grace didn’t suffer, Ry. At least we know that.’
He nodded, and she lifted the little heart gently out of his hand, kissed it and put it back on the shelf, next to a pretty cardboard box. She touched it fleetingly.
‘That’s her memory box,’ she said softly. ‘The midwives gave it to me in the hospital. Would you like to see it?’
He shook his head, mentally backing away from it, unable to face it. ‘No. Not tonight. I’m too tired, Beth. I think I might head up to bed. I’ve got another long day tomorrow and you’re working.’
Her smile was understanding, as if she’d seen straight through him.
‘When you’re ready,’ she said gently, but he’d spent two long years running away from it and he wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready for what he knew must be in that memory box.
Time to stop running? Maybe, but not now. Not tonight.
Not yet…
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