Michael, did you really think we would ever recover? Mum and Dad visit your grave every day, rearranging your flowers, overflowing with tears and begging to swap places with you. I have returned to your place of death, haunted, isolated and inconsolable. I touch your car every morning, your watch and bracelet when I get home, cry and beg for your forgiveness and return to us each night. Jamie calls for you often, points at the chair you usually sit in, runs into your gate and knocks on your door shouting “uncle, uncle”. Alex sits in your flat at night, hoping to feel something, looking for answers. We can never look at our wedding pictures again, in which you wore the same suit that we buried you in. Every memory of you is too sad to recall, every picture of you deepens our grief. No, we will not ever recover from your loss. And all the while, your paper doll is smiling and laughing on the other side of the world.