As midnight approached, there was a drought of happiness. Instead, a flood of tears, uncontrollable sobbing.

I sat on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket to ward off the cold chill of winter. It was two days ago that we were sitting here quietly sipping our coffees, Bronwyn still tending to my last few days of chickenpox. Oh yes, it has certainly been a terrible Christmas.

The phone rang and Bronwyn got up to answer it and I was hoping for a friendly voice for me to set upon my story of terrible illness, oddly proud of my survival and hardship. I wish that had been the case.

By her voice, I knew something awful had happened. It sounded like….like someone had died. She called me through her choking and sobbing.

Thoughts raced. My mum? Not my mum!

Bronwyn said, ‘It’s Rob.’

‘Oh, thank god, ‘ I thought, ‘it’s not Steve.’ Or did she mean that it’s Rob on the phone? Oh, those few seconds are so clear, all those thoughts whizzing around as I took the receiver, Bronwyn too distressed to talk.

‘Steve passed away from a heart attack, the day before yesterday.’ WHAM! It was, as you’d expect, like a ton of bricks.

The veil of illness over me immediately lifted.