A phone-call¦ a dash to the hospital¦ a wait with hope¦a Paediatric Consultant¦ a wait without hope¦ a goodbye.
The front door frowns as I approach, its post box mouth turned down in disappointment. Shame burns in my cheeks as I remember my hasty departure last night, tail between my legs. I don't have a key. My knuckles graze the wood and I think can hear her footsteps in the hall. I bend down and prise open the letterbox, I push my hand through the inside flap and peer inside. Stale alcohol and burnt toast reaches my nostrils. My jacket hangs on the hat stand, the key in the right hand pocket, tantalising out of reach.