I have been thinking a lot about the London cabbie who drove us home from the hospital after Matthew died. We didn’t need to talk. He didn’t need to ask what had happened. He watched us and he knew. He wouldn’t accept money from us once back at our London flat. He was sober, he was gentle. He said few words, but he got out of the cab to stand with us while we took a breath before going in to see the children. He helped me to my door, he looked on, as if to say that he too was grieving. I can’t write about it without crying. God bless that London cabbie.
Happy Birthday, my precious precious Matthew. We miss you.