It's strange, I suppose, that I've imagined -numerous times - us talking it over, when it's over. Once you can think straight again, and marshall the right words for the right things out of your mouth.
You say: 'I'm so sorry. I never wanted to put you through that. It's the last thing I wanted for you'. Because it's the sort of thing you would say, and pretty much did say, years ago.
And I say: 'It's not your fault. It couldn't be less your fault. And I'm sorry for the times I wasn't more patient. It was so hard.' And I squeeze your hand.
We are walking and talking in a wood, or by a river, or by a river in a wood, because that's where we often would be walking.
And we are holding hands and your hand isn't shaking, and you are walking quickly like you used to, and in a straight line. The wind is messing up my hair and sticking it to my lip balm, and you are wearing that red puffer jacket I always hated, but I don't care about either of these things.
And the low sun is shining, almost white, and sometimes getting in our eyes, and the ground feels crisp with a light frost and, although it is midwinter, it feels like a new beginning.
And we agree how relieved we are that it is all over. And how it feels like a...a great lifting of things.
And you smile at me and say 'Shall we go back to the children?' And so we do, together.