Why this book exists
A focused place to understand what is happening
Verity is thirty-four. Eleven months ago she went into hospital at thirty-eight weeks with a bag packed and a car seat in the boot, and she came home four days later with neither. Her daughter was born, and her daughter had died, and the two facts occupy the same afternoon and have never sorted themselves into an order that makes sense. There is a room in her house with a cot in it and folded clothes in sizes her daughter will never reach, and Verity has neither dismantled it nor gone into it, and eleven months on she still stops outside the door sometimes and puts her hand flat on it and stands there. What she has found hardest is not the grief itself, which she expected to be unbearable and which is, but the discovery that a large part of the.
The writing is designed to reduce shame, bring the underlying pattern into view and give you practical ways to respond without pretending that every life follows the same formula.
