I’m Louise, thirty-six years old, single – well, widowed I believe is the correct term, but that makes me sound so old. Besides, Sam made me promise never to use that word. He said it wasn’t sexy. He thought I was.
Sam died six years ago, from a brain tumour. He was a lovely man and I was privileged to be his wife for three short years. Six months to the day he was diagnosed – from our wedding day, that is. And though we battled, both of us, he gave up the fight a week before my thirtieth birthday – a month after his, telling me to go out into the world, meet someone nice and have children. He would have made a wonderful father.
So here I am at the age of 36, single, foster mother of Katie, 13, and OMG, I can’t believe I’m saying this –
