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That day he'd booked a table at my favourite restaurant. It was his usual way of saying sorry.

Now, we stood in groups outside the church. I gathered condolences like confetti, each a brief flurry of contact then back to their lives.

My mother said it would take time. Maybe years.

I tugged the sleeves of my black dress down tight over my wrists. She would never know, that for me the bruises had already begun to fade.

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