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the kids had been through enough trauma. Watching their father being buried would only add to it and give them nightmares. It could scar them for years to come.
    What they said made sense, but my instinct was to let them go. By now I’d been onto Amazon and bought several books on helping children cope with grief. The authors—all child shrinks—were unanimous. Even young children needed a chance to say good-bye to a parent. If I excluded them from the funeral, they might feel left out and abandoned. When they were older, they could become resentful and angry. I ignored my parents and went with the shrinks—and my own instinct.
    The day before, I sat the kids down and we had the funeral talk. I explained that grown-ups often got very upset at funerals. “Some of them might be crying, but don’t be frightened. It’s perfectly normal.” They were nodding and taking it all in and I was congratulating myself for making a halfway decent go of this when Ella asked what a grave was. Even before I’d finished explaining, she became distraught. How could I bury her daddy in a deep, dark hole full of creepy-crawlies? I was the cruelest person in the whole world and she hated me. Oddly, it was Dan who managed to calm her down.
    “When we buried Jeffrey, our class hamster, Mrs. Willoughbyexplained that he couldn’t see or feel anything anymore and that he’d be fine and wouldn’t be frightened.”
    “Dan’s absolutely right,” I said. “Daddy can’t feel anything. He won’t be scared.”
    “You promise?”
    “I promise.”
    Telling the kids about sex was going to be a breeze after this.
    When I tried to persuade Ella to wrap up warm and wear trousers and a sweater to the funeral, she virtually threw a tantrum. “No! I’m saying good-bye to my daddy today. Trousers are ugly. I want to look pretty.” She insisted on wearing her pink fairy dress under her winter coat.
    Unlike Ella, I didn’t look pretty. Grief plays havoc with the complexion. My skin was gray. It was also chapped and dry from all the tears and nose blowing. Foundation and a bit of mascara would have brightened me up, but I hadn’t bothered on the grounds that it was only going to get washed away and leave me with streaks and panda eyes.
    I hadn’t bothered much with my funeral outfit either. That was partly due to grief, but it was also because I had no money. The poorer Mike and I had become, the less interest I took in what I wore. Back when I was studying fashion at art school, all my outfits had been meticulously planned. In a week I could go from emo (black everything, multicolored stripes in my hair) to grunge (ripped tights, Doc Martens) to vintage (1940s shirtwaister dresses with shoulder pads.)These days I lived in leggings and jeans. I always managed to scrape together the money for a decent haircut, though—usually by eBay-ing some fancy objet I’d bought when we were doing up the house.
    Mum wanted to take me out and buy me a dress for the funeral. She had in mind a black shift dress, lifted with a long string of pearls and topped off with a chic little hat—nothing too overstated. Jackie Kennedy was the widow to beat. I said thanks but no thanks and opted for black leggings, a woolen tunic top and boots. To her credit, my mother, who wasn’t known for her tact, had the sense not to say anything.
    Mum’s prediction had been right. We did get a decent turnout. Over a hundred people showed up. Mike’s work colleagues came—although I’d sent a message saying that I didn’t want Louis Liebowitz there. Rightly or wrongly, I blamed him for Mike’s addiction, and by extension—ludicrous as it may have seemed—there was part of me that blamed him for Mike’s death. I’d never truly hated anybody in my life, but my feelings for Louis Liebowitz came close.
    There were relatives at the funeral I hadn’t seen since our wedding. Uncle Barnet was there. He’d clearly managed to get a reasonable quote from a cab company. There were