I thought about writing this story as fiction: two women, a later-in-life, larger-than-life friendship that changes both of them, a sudden fatal illness. Fiction can fix the broken, prevent the disaster, turn around the inevitable. The child can be saved. The bad guys can be caught. The terminal patient can beat all odds. By choosing fiction, I could change the ending of our story, Diana’s and mine. I could keep her alive. But no. If I did that, it wouldn’t be our story anymore.

“Mum..ah..” The sound rises from his mouth like a bubble, lifting into the air and popping gently at my ears. He’s grinning up at me with one of those gorgeous, full-face bursts that shows off his four newly erupted pearls.