The picnic basket was packed for two.
Neatly cut sandwiches nestled in cling-film squares, alongside tiny pots of jam and honey, packets of crisps and shiny red apples. Home-made cakes were packed in rows, complete with swirled icing and chocolate drops, next to crumbling flapjack and shortbread biscuits. A large flask of hot water and a bag of teabags completed the ensemble.
The only thing I lacked was someone to go with.
My husband’s chair stood empty, and would remain so now, ever since that night I returned home from the hospital alone. Sometimes, I forgot that.
Letting out a breath, I started to unpack the basket again.
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